Random thoughts amidst unseemly Pledge Week begging

• I know many of you start each day with a cup of hot coffee. Since, oh, mid-April I’ve been starting each day by watching Ray Davies and the Jayhawks perform “Americana,” the title cut from Ray’s magnificent new album. I find it soothingly elevating.

• If it wasn’t pledge week, I’d today be writing about how I told my mother (84, dementia) a dear old cousin of hers had gotten eaten by a bear. In fact, he died of a common heart attack, but I thought I’d use his death to see if she’d remember a really colorful demise. As she does not, I keep adding details. It’s now a very rich and gothic death, one which I think cousin Chuck would prefer. He was a fun and outdoorsy guy who was fond of wearing ’70’s style leisure suits. I’m enjoying telling the fiction because it proves, to hungry bears at least, you don’t have to exude good taste to taste good.

• In my mind, I was hoping my plea for donations would be greeted the way Bedford Falls greeted Mary Bailey’s “It’s A Wonderful Life” summons that her husband George was broke and needed dough fast. That hasn’t happened yet, but I’ll be sure to post something cheerful the instant it does.

• Spent the weekend with the family being tourists in D.C. It was wonderful. We spent Friday evening doing the Western monuments (Lincoln, Vietnam, Korean, MLK, FDR, Jefferson), Saturday the centrals (Washington monument, Holocaust Museum,  WWII, American History) and Sunday the eastern sites (Capitol, Supreme Court, Air & Space, Natural History, Hall of Archives and later the National Zoo). We’re so divided over so much, but that every American can enjoy each of these historical splendors for free is a national blessing.

• If it wasn’t pledge week, I’d have written about Uber. My old Nashville buddy Jim pointed out an NYTimes story about how the once-promising partnership between Uber & Pittsburgh soured. We used Uber a bunch in DC. Being aware what a criminal jerk Uber CEO Travis Kalanick is, it pained me to use them so much. Uber drivers work for next to nothing, get no respect, and have to hustle to make ends meet. So Uber drivers are like the bloggers of the transportation world! And, yes, we always tipped them (nudge, nudge).

• I realized I became eligible for an Order of Irony Medal when we were standing in front of a monument honoring victims and survivors of the Bataan Death March and all I could think about was how sore my feet felt.

• A friend of mine turned 40 this week and was lamenting how he now felt over the hill, done, used up. Overlooking the fact he was making this gloomy assessment to a 54-year-old listener, I told him he was fine. “Plus,” I said, “even if you are over the hill, it helps to remember going downhill fast is always the most exhilarating part of the ride.” I’m going to try and keep that in mind as my declines accelerate.

• I’m very proud of this blog and the number of people who enjoy it so much, but if circumstances don’t improve, changes will be made. I’m paraphrasing here with something I heard on an actual PBS pledge drive.

• The literalist in me was furious to visit Smithsonian Air & Space Museum and see it has both walls and ceilings.

• Jim, that same old Nashville buddy, asked if donation amounts lead to increasing gift levels. Like does a $25 pledge earn a blog umbrella; a $50 pledge a blog tote bag; etc.? I told him I'll start throwing in cheap bulk tchotchke when surging donations make purchasing cheap bulk tchotchke possible.

• I am putting together a sequel to “Use All The Crayons!” How about this? Anyone who donates to support the blog will get a grateful mention in the new book’s acknowledgments. And a free signed copy!

• I guarantee some of the jurors being selected in Pittsburgh for what is likely to be a long trial once said, “Oh, I just love Bill Cosby! I wish I could spend some time getting to know him even better.”

• If it wasn’t pledge week, I’d be writing about our visit to the magnificent Lincoln Monument and one of my favorite recollections of offbeat Presidential history. It was May 9, 1970, five days after the Kent State shootings. It was there under the shadow of Lincoln that then-President Richard Nixon surprised college protesters by appearing in person at 4 a.m. just to philosophize. It was utterly bizarre. The students asked Nixon questions about U.S. incursions into Cambodia, about the death of innocents and the morality of war. Yeah, in the back of my mind, I game planned what I’d ask President Trump if he on the spur of the moment decided to wade out among the tourists. Was I going to ask about prejudice? Equality? The sustainability of human life on a depleted planet? Nope, nope and nope. I was going to ask him if he’d likes to donate to support Eight Days To Amish. I’m optimistic he’d have written me a check on the spot.

• Chris Rodell, 874 Solomon Temple Rd., Latrobe, Pa. 15650. Or just click the PayPal (storyteller@chrisrodell.com) donate button.

• No amount too small … or too large! Every gesture appreciated.

Seeing "Wonderul Life" a national obligation (from '15)

(652 words)

It is my patriotic conviction no one in America should be allowed to see “Star Wars: The Force Awakens” until everyone can prove they’ve seen “It’s A Wonderful Life.

It’s that important to our national well-being.

I’m dumbfounded over how many people haven’t seen our most essential Christmas classic.

It is, I guess, understandable for younger generations. They’re subjected to too many techie distractions, are reluctant to engage programs older than “SpongeBob,” and many are unfairly burdened by moronic parents.

But, c’mon, everyone over 40 should have by now seen it and should make time each Christmas to see it again and again.

Why?

Because watching it makes everyone feel better about themselves. The message — that every life has enormous worth — is one that needs constant reinforcing.

And it’s just perfectly entertaining. It’s funny. It’s sentimental. And it gives us heterosexual men our annual opportunity to fall in love with Donna Reed all over again.

I practice what I preach.

I was appalled when I learned a 45-year-old friend of mine had never seen it.

“Okay, that’s it,” I said. “You’re calling in sick this afternoon. You and I are going so spend the afternoon getting drunk and watching ‘It’s a Wonderful Life.’”

Oh, he demurred, I can’t. I’m too busy.

“You have to! You can’t go another minute without seeing this movie!”

He said people were counting on him. His job was too important. And getting drunk in the middle of the weekday was irresponsible … 

Blah, blah, blah.

When did they stop putting auto pilots in commercial jet liners?

It’s that important to me. 

So, by all means, be sure you watch the movie. It's on NBC tonight at 8 p.m..

Or how about this?

Wait until next year and join us on our annual holiday pilgrimage to The Jimmy Stewart Museum in the actor’s native Indiana, Pennsylvania.

We were there Saturday. We go every year.

The museum is wonderful. Stewart is indelibly linked to George Bailey and vice versa. As Stewart was a Boy Scout, a war hero, a father and consummate gentleman, it was the best typecasting since “Wizard of Oz” producers cast a dog named Toto to play a dog named Toto.

Best part? The museum includes a cozy theater that throughout the year matinees “Harvey,” “Rear Window,” “The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance” and other famous Stewart films. At Christmas, of course, the feature is “It’s a Wonderful Life.”

We don’t stay for the whole thing (that’s for Christmas Eve at home), usually just to the honeymoon scene.

This is the year we’ll remember because the audience included a woman who we think must have escaped from the local lunatic asylum.

We deduce that because she laughed hysterically at even the most mild laugh lines.

She roared when George was shopping for luggage, she cackled when Harry Bailey was carrying plates on his head, and when the floor to the pool opened up she laughed so hard we thought the building would collapse.

It was excessive and we figured the woman, about 40, was probably nuts.

Or maybe she was just one of those perfectly nice and joyful people, the kind of person you’d imagine Jimmy Stewart was all the time.

Either way, it’s pretty clear she’s the kind of person who won’t cut in line, ruin your day with road ragery or cause a nasty Facebook fight over pointless political differences.

For those reasons alone, I hope she carries the movie’s message with her throughout her every day for as long as she lives. 

I hope she wakes up realizing her joyful exuberance is making a difference throughout the world, that she is an inspiration to those who struggle and that by finding happiness in even little things, she is making everything better.

Because she matters. A lot.

We all do.

Because it’s a wonderful life.

It’s a pretty darn good movie, too

Related . . .

“The Jimmy Stewart Museum,” an MSNBC travel story of mine

Christmas book sales and what I sign

“That’s my steak, Valence.”

Faking your death to lure Christmas guests

Whole world needs to LOL right now

Read this then go straight to sleep

Seeing "Wonderful Life" a national obligation

(652 words)

It is my patriotic conviction no one in America should be allowed to see “Star Wars: The Force Awakens” until everyone can prove they’ve seen “It’s A Wonderful Life.

It’s that important to our national well-being.

I’m dumbfounded over how many people haven’t seen our most essential Christmas classic.

It is, I guess, understandable for younger generations. They’re subjected to too many techie distractions, are reluctant to engage programs older than “SpongeBob,” and many are unfairly burdened by moronic parents.

But, c’mon, everyone over 40 should have by now seen it and should make time each Christmas to see it again and again.

Why?

Because watching it makes everyone feel better about themselves. The message — that every life has enormous worth — is one that needs constant reinforcing.

And it’s just perfectly entertaining. It’s funny. It’s sentimental. And it gives us heterosexual men our annual opportunity to fall in love with Donna Reed all over again.

I practice what I preach.

I was appalled when I learned a 45-year-old friend of mine had never seen it.

“Okay, that’s it,” I said. “You’re calling in sick this afternoon. You and I are going so spend the afternoon getting drunk and watching ‘It’s a Wonderful Life.’”

Oh, he demurred, I can’t. I’m too busy.

“You have to! You can’t go another minute without seeing this movie!”

He said people were counting on him. His job was too important. And getting drunk in the middle of the weekday was irresponsible … 

Blah, blah, blah.

When did they stop putting auto pilots in commercial jet liners?

It’s that important to me. 

So, by all means, be sure you watch the movie on Christmas Eve, 8 p.m., on NBC.

Or how about this?

Wait until next year and join us on our annual holiday pilgrimage to The Jimmy Stewart Museum in the actor’s native Indiana, Pennsylvania.

We were there Saturday. We go every year.

The museum is wonderful. Stewart is indelibly linked to George Bailey and vice versa. As Stewart was a Boy Scout, a war hero, a father and consummate gentleman, it was the best typecasting since “Wizard of Oz” producers cast a dog named Toto to play a dog named Toto.

Best part? The museum includes a cozy theater that throughout the year matinees “Harvey,” “Rear Window,” “The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance” and other famous Stewart films. At Christmas, of course, the feature is “It’s a Wonderful Life.”

We don’t stay for the whole thing (that’s for Christmas Eve at home), usually just to the honeymoon scene.

This is the year we’ll remember because the audience included a woman who we think must have escaped from the local lunatic asylum.

We deduce that because she laughed hysterically at even the most mild laugh lines.

She roared when George was shopping for luggage, she cackled when Harry Bailey was carrying plates on his head, and when the floor to the pool opened up she laughed so hard we thought the building would collapse.

It was excessive and we figured the woman, about 40, was probably nuts.

Or maybe she was just one of those perfectly nice and joyful people, the kind of person you’d imagine Jimmy Stewart was all the time.

Either way, it’s pretty clear she’s the kind of person who won’t cut in line, ruin your day with road ragery or cause a nasty Facebook fight over pointless political differences.

For those reasons alone, I hope she carries the movie’s message with her throughout her every day for as long as she lives. 

I hope she wakes up realizing her joyful exuberance is making a difference throughout the world, that she is an inspiration to those who struggle and that by finding happiness in even little things, she is making everything better.

Because she matters. A lot.

We all do.

Because it’s a wonderful life.

It’s a pretty darn good movie, too

Related . . .

“The Jimmy Stewart Museum,” an MSNBC travel story of mine

Christmas book sales and what I sign

“That’s my steak, Valence.”

Faking your death to lure Christmas guests

Whole world needs to LOL right now

Read this then go straight to sleep

Blog coming attractions

During the week I’ve been away, I’ve posted just two blogs and fulfilled not a single professional obligation that could lead to wages.

Yet, to which endeavor do I feel the more pressing obligation?

Yes, blog on! Ignore the logical pursuit of income in favor of all the freebie fun here at www.EightDaysToAmish.com!

Heck, I’m so near to Amish these days it’d be prudent if I spent the whole time making batches of candles for when they come to shut off the lights.

Being away on my golf trip to the Gulf Coast (in fact, it was an assignment), fills my blog dance card with plenty of story options, but precious little time to write them.

As I’m off my near-daily routine, I suspect you may be, too. So instead of plunging back in with something topical and, perhaps, heavy with thought, I figured it’d be best to present you with a slate of coming attractions.

• “Return of the Panic Attacks” -- About 10 years ago I began disappointing myself by having mild panic attacks on airplanes. As I hope you’ll see, they didn’t stem from an irrational fear of flying. They stemmed from an irrational fear of being crammed together with so many other people who fly. It happened momentarily again on the packed flight to Houston, no one noticed it and I was able to overcome it without alcoholic assistance. But I think you’ll find it interesting. I know I do. Starring Jimmy Stewart.

• “My New Friend Dated the Houston Weather Girl!” -- I met some really great folks on this trip, including a new buddy who told me about his adventures dating Local Weather Girl. And guess what? She was an awful bitch who didn’t like The Beatles. The Beatles! This screw-ball romcom promises high-pressure fun when a sunshine guy collides with a storm system that leaves destruction in its blond wake.

• “I Don’t Gamble” -- Actually, that title’s misleading. I may have spent the last seven days in some of the finest casinos east of the Mississippi River, but I didn’t wager a dime. I contend my entire life as a freelancer is a higher stakes wager than anything you can bet in a casino. Starring Joseph Gordon-Levitt as the hapless freelancer who rolls the dice on life, this one got raves at Sundance.

• “American Skin (41 Shots)” -- Geez, am I finding lots of reasons to include Springsteen mentions in my stories these days. The Trayvon Martin story was coming to a boil while I was in a region of America that has struggled with race relations to often horrific results. Commentators are saying what happened on a well-armed neighborhood watch in Sanford, Florida, is stirring a national conversation about race relations. I can think of one voice absent from the discussion. That would be Trayvon’s. Recommended for mature audiences only.

• “9 Downing Street” -- I’ve just begun reading Adam Hochschild’s World War I book, “To End All Wars: A Story of Loyalty and Rebellion,” and was struck by references to one of the most famous addresses in the world, 10 Downing Street, home of the British prime minister. It seems so perfectly ordinary, it got me wondering about who dwelt in 1-9 Downing Street and if there was a pub on the corner or perhaps a laundromat. This straight-to-video mockumentary stars the voice of Michael Moore.

Those are just a few of the topics I hope to tackle over the next few days. As always, I’m grateful to anyone who reads this stuff and takes the time to share it with friends. The enthusiasm I hear for it blows me away.

I’ll be posting a Twitter round-up later today as a small gesture for having been away for so long.

That means there’s plenty of time for you to stretch your legs before the feature begins.

So let’s all go to the lobby! Let’s all go to the lobby! Let’s all go to the lobby and have ourselves some snacks!

Because that’s entertainment.

Read this then go straight to sleep

Many fine Americans are eager to stand up and fight against perceived flaws they believe are harming the nation.

Me, I’m about to lay down and nap over one.

The stigma against sleep is costing America. No one is getting enough of it. It’s obvious in our stress, our productivity and our spiraling ethics.

Well-rested people aren’t prone to violence, sloth or felonious business practices.

We should be inviting sleep, not fighting it. If sleep beckons, we should obey, the exception being people like train conductors and airline pilots.

We’ve all heard hyper-productive Type-A busybodies brag about needing just four hours of sleep per night, but you never hear anyone bragging they enjoy 10 hours of sleep each night.

My nights are interrupted by two tiny sleep bandits, woodsy creature noises and the nervous yipping of a dog with a BB-sized bladder capacity.

I’m on a quest to get everybody under my roof to go to bed two hours earlier and get up two hours later.

The kids would be asleep by 8 and would wake up at 9. Sure, Josie would miss her first hour of fourth grade, but nothing important happens in school until 10 -- and I don’t mean 10 a.m.

I mean 10th grade.

My wife and I would be undercovers by 9:30 p.m. and up at 8:30 a.m.

Doesn’t that sleep schedule strike you as nirvana?

It does me.

Not Val. She got mad at me recently for dozing off at 9:30 in our bed after reading to one of the kids and just, ahhh, staying there like a sedated mental patient clear through the next morning.

For the first time in months, I reached the most hallowed state of sleep. Yes, I hit pillow puddlin’ slobber sleep.

In sleep terms, that’s like bowling a 300.

To her, it seemed like a waste of time. She thinks we should stay awake so long we become actual zombies so we can enjoy adult shows about things like fictional zombies.

In an ideal world -- and in any ideal world, there are no children -- we’d have about an hour of bedtime unwinding, reading, TV or couple cuddlin’ from 9 to 10 p.m. each and every night.

But years ago we made the cheap-skate mistake of not getting a DVR for our bedroom.

Without the bedroom DVR, we are forced to stay awake in the living room long enough execute a series of maneuvers similar to what happens in far flung U.S. Army outposts around the globe.

We need to secure the fireplace, check the perimeter and do a quick head count before finally getting to bed at 11 sharp in time to watch a 1996 episode of “Seinfeld” we’ve only seen 114 times before.

It’s so bad it took us four nights to watch one 2 hour, 45 minute movie. We’d recorded the outstanding 1959 Alfred Hitchcock movie, “Anatomy of a Murder,” starring Jimmy Stewart.

We both kept falling asleep during key segments and would spend breakfast trying to unravel plot lines and determine if we’d spied the Hitchcock cameo he so cleverly asserts into each of his films.

It wasn’t until the movie finally concluded we realized it would have been Hitchcock’s most clever cameo ever.

Because in our sleep deprived state, neither of us ever realized it was an Otto Preminger movie.

Everything would improve if we got more sleep.

Our families would have less time to bicker. We’d all get more done in less time. 

Me, I’d have time to dream up better story ideas and, thus, would start receiving a better class of rejection letters from more prominent sleep-deprived editors.

Sleeplessness is often confused with physical virtuosity. It’s a quality we’ve always sought in our elected leaders and a keystone critique of those right now tromping around desolate Iowa.

It should be the other way around. 

So wake up, America!

And go right back to bed.

We’ll all be better off.

From sea to shining zzzzzzzzz . . . .

Random thoughts on tears, guns and middle names

I’ve had this National Parks Service press release sitting on my desk since October 6. It says “Harry S Truman National Historic Site” to be profiled by the National Parks Getaway series.

Careful readers will notice what looks a typo. There is no period after the “S” in Harry S Truman.”

In fact, there is no period after the “S” in Harry S Truman.”

His middle name is S.

Er, I mean his middle name is S

It’s the kind of thing I keep on my desk for a long time hoping one day -- Eureeka! -- inspiration will strike and I’ll be able to write about why Harry Truman has a middle initial but not a middle name. Turns out it was not uncommon for people of Scotch-Irish descent, a race known, not coincidentally, for thrift.

Alas, inspiration is proving evasive. The only thing I that leaps to my mind anytime I see Harry S Truman is that it must sound like, well, hairy ass Truman.

“Here comes that hairy ass Truman.”

So since I can’t come up with a whole idea based on presidential middle names that must mean it’s time to clean up the desk of the little idea scraps that aren’t growing into anything more substantial.

Yes, it’s time for a Lazy S Blog . . .

• My wife and I just enjoyed the delightful 2009 movie “500 Days of Summer,” starring Joseph Gordon-Levitt, one of our favorite young actors. We’ve loved him ever since he played Tommy in “Third Rock from the Sun,” the 1996-2001 absurdist sitcom starring John Lithgow.

The romantic comedy has a fantasy scene about how he feels the day after he and Summer, played by the winsome Zooey Deschanel, finally have at it. To the tune of the bouncy 1984 Hall & Oates song, “You Make My Dreams Come True,” it shows him sauntering down the street to increasingly exuberant greetings. Strangers smile at him, shake his hand, chest bump, boogie down, and lift him atop their shoulders as a marching band appears to accompany the spontaneous good feeling fest. Finally, an animated blue bird lands on his shoulder and tweets a happy hello to a young man enraptured by love. We showed the clip to our 10-year-old and said, “This is what love feels like.” Can’t wait to show her the whole movie with all the dirty talk and innuendo when she’s old enough to understand it. The daddy in me hopes that won’t be until the year 2024.

• As a young reporter, I’d nearly died of boredom in thousands of school board meetings, but never of multiple gun shot wounds. The video of the scene in Florida is breathtaking. What a story. Of course, I’m waiting for the inevitable arguments about how a guy that violent, that crazy, had easy access to a semi-automatic weapon, and how it was a good thing a security guard had his lethal ventilator concealed under his jacket. I’m glad the NRA will be available to explain it all to me.

• I could write a lot about John Boehner’s blubbering, but that’s been done to death. Me, I shed a lot of tears for a lot of odd reasons, but I’d never blubber on 60 Minutes where decorum calls us all to be as stoic as Clint Eastwood at an outlaw’s hanging. Still, we should all be galled by the double standard exposed by Boehner’s maudlin tears. Nancy Pelosi would be pilloried for weeping, and any male Democrat who acted like Boehner would be lambasted by Fox as a posy-sniffing pansy.

• In the interests of healing bi-partisanship, I hope in 2011 some legislation involving abandoned puppies moves Boehner so deeply he runs to the ample lap of colleague Barney Frank and cuddles in for a good, long cry.

• This may surprise readers familiar with my lefty politics, but I like John Boehner, tears and all. He smokes and was raised by a man who ran a tavern. He strikes me as a practical, reasonable man who looks at morality crusaders like Sarah Palin and thinks, WTF? Unlike Newt Gingrich, Tom Delay, Rick Santorum, etc., if Boehner called me to play golf and then spend the night getting loaded and talking about the great movies that make us both cry, I’d accept.

• Clay Duke, the Florida school board shooter, is being described as a troubled, broke, ex-con with bi-polar disorder and an interest in anarchy. And I’ll bet that’s exactly what he put on the gun permit application.

 • It would be fun to see what outlandish and violent intentions you could include on a gun permit application and -- hey! here you go! -- still get a gun.

• I remain tickled by the information revealed on the stats page at my home blog. It fascinates me how many people from all over the world read my blog. After the homeland (USA! USA!), the second most readers are still in Denmark -- and I’m becoming daily more fond of the Danes. They are followed by Canada, U.K., Brazil, Russia, France and readers in more than 43 countries. Amazing. Thanks! 

• My favorite fact from the stats page? On Thanksgiving Day, four people from Turkey woke up and started reading www.EightDaysToAmish.com. If linking a day when Americans consume millions of turkeys to people who live in a country named Turkey is insulting, I apologize.

• My most faithful reader, however, may be a South Korean. The instant I post this, the page shows that someone in South Korea will start reading it with the way someone races to the mailbox for money. I know nothing about this person, but I think about them just about every time I sit down to write one of these. Thank you, my distant friend.

• I cry at the end of “Big Fish,” “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest,” “Saving Private Ryan,” “Mister Roberts” and during the scene where Rocky makes up with the Mick to heal his breaking heart. I’m not sure why, but I sometimes cry at the end of “The Man Who Shot Liberty Valence.” Please don’t tell Leslie Stahl.

• I’m in the middle of a really nice run of stories for msnbc.com. None have been more gratifying than the reaction to the one about the Jimmy Stewart Museum needing a George Bailey moment. I don’t know how much money has been raised, but it’s likely to be enough to make a difference. Following up on my story, NBC Nightly News sent a reporter to do a nice segment that ran last week. Things like that make me feel like one day I might earn my wings.

• Maybe my fascination with middle names stems from envy. Neither my brother nor I have them. It’s true, our parents hated their middle names (Russell/Mae) so much they didn’t want to burden us with them. It’s maybe the only way these two loving people with odd aversions to perfectly normal middle names ever neglected their sons. Oh, well. It’s nothing worth crying about.