The many ways in which I'm like Henry David Thoreau

(760 words)

I don’t know why it didn’t occur to me earlier, but the writer with whom I have the most in common is none other than Henry David Thoreau.

He began writing “Walden” while spending two years living in the woods on Walden Pond near Concord, Massachusetts. 

I wrote “Use All The Crayons!” while spending eight years drinking at The Pond near Latrobe, Pennsylvania!

He was a Harvard divinity student who wrote: “The unconsciousness of man is the consciousness of God.”

I was an Ohio University C student who wrote: “I wonder if temperature in heaven is individualized or if some old ladies complain it's always too cold & bundle up in sweaters.”

He believed in the abolition of racial injustice and once wrote: “The only house in a Slave state in which a free man can abide with honor is a government prison.”

I believe in the abolition of racial injustice and once wrote: “As a believer in American equality, I don't miss Jim Crow; as a believer in American folk music, I do miss Jim Croce.”

Reading “Walden” in college was a foundational experience for me back when I was seeking a life-guiding ethos. He talked about shedding our petty contrivances in favor of spiritual elevation. A Thoreau-guided life promised transcendence, simplicity and soulful peace untainted by crass materialism.

It promised all the things an idealistic young man craves save two, all but two.

Babes and margaritas!

Happily, I had a friend who turned me onto young Jimmy Buffett and — cheers! — my formative years segued into what seemed like one long tequila commercial.

Now I’m more than halfway through with my mortal portion and I’m wondering what happened to the Thoreau part of me. It still informs so much of philosophizing.

Heck, both my book and my blog titles hint at the benefits of the simple life, an existence devoted to companionship, reading and embracing the vivacious joys each day offers.

Yet, I spend my nearly every waking moment fretting about money and persistent fears of failure.

What gives? How did Thoreau throughout his entire life maintain his aesthetic core?

I decided to investigate. The answer was as plain as the nose on his face.

Thoreau never got laid! A man known for his earthiness never got down and dirty.

That has to be it.

Living in the woods for most any guy with drinking buddies would be a cinch. You’d never get lonely because your married friends could come visit. They’d bring beer, chips and maybe some woodsie wieners.

It’d be like an endless tailgate party, one where you didn’t have to worry about the daintiness of urinating in some stuffy Port-O-John.

Was his apparent celibacy self-imposed as, perhaps, a way to achieve higher understanding? Maybe not. This from the Thoreau Wikipedia “personal appearance” chapter: “Thoreau was a homely man, with a nose that he called ‘my most prominent feature.’”

Dissed by Wikipedia, one of the most bland websites in all creation! I can only guess Wikipedia’s never gazed in a Wikimirror.

So I don’t feel too bad I haven’t lived up to the Thoreau standard set in the revered “Walden.”

I’m blessed to have a darling wife and daughters. That I lay awake at night trying to conjure ways to be a better provider for them is a small price to pay for all they give me, even when prices to pay are for things like college, car insurance and new iPhones.

Then there’s this: I read it took Thoreau five years to sell 2,000 copies. This may be difficult for you precious millennials to comprehend, but the only Amazon in 1854 was a piranha-infested river in South America.

I wonder if the old technophobe would appreciate the irony that a Facebook page dedicated to him has 293,404 likes.

Me, I’ve sold more than twice that many “Crayons!” books in just four years.

And the poor guy died at just 44 after contracting bronchitis while walking in the woods during a thunderstorm. 

What? You thought this apostle of the pastoral fell into a primitive combine?

On his deathbed he said what to me is the most blessedly elegant observation anyone’s ever made about the relationship between mankind and our creator. Had he, it was asked, made his peace with God?

“I did not know we’d ever quarreled.”

How profound. I’ve never written anything so sublime.

But the day’s young and The Pond is open for business again. And I can’t think of a better place to make a real splash than a place called The Pond.

Related …

Regular bar patrons need personal seat licenses

The joyful need to read

Free firewood? It’s true

Farewell, Pond office! I am outta here

Who is Edmund Pettus & how is Harrison Ford?

The Pond is for sale again (this is not a re-run)

(746 words)

It was one-year ago I wrote what I consider one of my sunniest-in-the-face-of-adversity posts of all time.

I’d just been evicted — Evicted! Me! — from my long-time office above my favorite bar (look closely and you'll see me waving out the window above). The legal maneuver was necessitated by the sale of The Pond, the landmark Latrobe tavern that had been run by three generations of the beloved Carfang family.

A bar that had been thriving since 1954 was getting what some would call a facelift, but in fact was more like a personality transplant.

A daily routine that had brought so much joy to so many happy inebriates was ending.

How did I react to these dual hits to my exuberant lifestyle?

I prosaically turned lemons into lemonade.

I said we need to embrace change. I said the new owners would be wise and innovative, careful of the bar’s legacy while simultaneously forward thinking enough to bring needed improvements for the August re-opening.

And me and my bar regular friends would all live tipsily ever after.

How’d that work out?

Well, it all went to shit.

Optimism, shmoptimism.

The new Pond didn’t re-open in August. It didn’t open in September or October, either. It finally opened in November. 

Prices went up. Prices went down. Promising bartenders came and went. They announced they were serving breakfast then they announced they weren’t.

Ominously, a big “FOR SALE” sign appeared on the front edifice in April. It was quickly removed when the new owners discerned it was bad for business.

I optimistically thought things were turning a corner right as the Penguins successful chase of the Stanley Cup began heating up. Me and a few of the regulars had tentatively returned because The Pond’s always been a great sports bar.

I with cheerful vision mentioned this to a local real estate agent right there at the bar one night. The place was packed. Sid had just scored. Everybody was having a great time.

It was almost like old times.

“You know,” I said to my friend, “I think the place has really turned a corner.”

“You’re right,” he said. “It has turned a corner. It’s closing for good next week.”

So The Pond, a bar that had endured as if in a happy time capsule for 64 years, is for sale — again — for the second time in 12 months.

And I’m reminded of the frequent lament of former owner Dave Carfang who’d pose the riddle: How do you make a small fortune in the restaurant business?

“Start with a large fortune.”

So was my rosy optimism unwarranted?

It sure wasn’t for me.

I’m now nestled high above the historic Tin Lizzy. I have a great view, cool ambience and my daily choice of three great bars and now a fantastic new host restaurant.

I like best that convivial readers from all over have read about the Tin and made the pilgrimage to Youngstown.

We roam the whole historic building, have a bite and then usually snag a 12-pack for beers up in the shabby office adjacent to the indoor cornhole court.

So what could possibly be missing?

My crew.

Our Pond regulars have scattered. Some joined a local social club, some frequent bars closer to their remote home.

One, I’ve heard, has quit drinking altogether, leading concerned friends to consider the moral ambiguity of what I guess would be a reverse intervention.

I love it here, yes, but I miss the carefree banter that comes from having seasoned friendships with nearly a dozen guys who instinctively got all the jokes.

That’s what we lost when The Pond closed.

Worse, now getting together with anyone is like a belittling daisy chain of unseemly considerations about who wants to go where with whom.

One guy doesn’t like one place because the beer’s too expensive. Another says the TVs are too small at another joint. Some scout the text message recipients to make sure they’re not feuding.

So trying to herd grown men together for an afternoon beer has logistical elements familiar to Ike and Operation Overlord.

I’m the lucky one. My desk chair swivels right above three of the best bars in Westmoreland County.

I’d say I’m never leaving here again, but I’d miss seeing my old buddies.

What was once so perfectly simple and simply perfect is now not.

I’d say it’d drive me to drink, but I no longer know where the hell I’m supposed to be doing that.

Related …

Farewell, Pond office! I am outta here …

Blog tourists coming to Tin Lizzy!

My new office!

I’m lovin’ cornhole! Who wants to join me?

Is the Tin Lizzy haunted?

The Pond is for sale: anyone want to buy a bar?

Someone stole Buck's book at Tin Lizzy

(795 words)

I figured at $16.95 my book was a real steal. I just never figured anyone would ever really steal it.

But that’s apparently what’s happened.

I guess that means my little morality play is backfiring.

See, Buck paid $20 for the book last week but we pretended he paid $50.

Buck owns the Tin Lizzy, which in a small town way is like saying Walt Disney owned Disney World.

People say the Tin Lizzy like it’s just one place. In fact, it’s six very distinct places under one roof.

There’s the Main Street bar where I spend most of my non-office time. It’s where Buck and the regulars cluster.

Then there’s the Rathskeller, a perfectly cool basement bar with foundation, fireplace and timbers that date back to 1780.

The second floor is Flappers, a 1920’s-themed martini bar. It’s very posh and intimate. When guests come to visit, I make sure we have at least two or three cocktails in there. In the summer, the adjoining balcony is very popular.

Also distinct are the Jaffre’s Italian Restaurant dining rooms on the main and second floors. They serve great food to the entire building.

So it’s quite a complex.

And up above it all overlooking the town’s only street light and just across the hall Westmoreland County’s only indoor cornhole court (link below) is my shabby little office.

It’s all perfectly cool. And just last week I confirmed Arnold Palmer was either born here or spent his first months here.

How cool is that?

I confess I’ve been reluctant to write about moving from my old place to the penthouse suite at the Tin Lizzy for fear it would be like a twice-married husband comparing his wives.

And, please don’t allow the wobbly analogy to cloud your perceptions of my marriage, but I must convey what an essential part of my daily existence a good bar is.

It’s been a very happy transition for me. I really enjoying being a part of this vibe.

And Buck’s always stopping by the office to insult me.

He tells me my hair’s a mess, or that I’ve worn the same flannel shirt three times in the past week, both of which are patently true so maybe he’s more observant than rude.

But after he hurts my feelings he always invites me downstairs for a drink, which always improves my mood. I always stay for three or four, so he’s a very shrewd businessman.

He likes to joke, too. That’s how he wound up pretending to pay $50 for a book someone eventually stole.

I underestimated interest in reading this satiric kind of book.

Heck, I underestimate interest in reading any kind of book.

But people are so far really liking “The Last Baby Boomer.” One guy bought nine copies and orders of three or four are becoming common. I never dreamed it would become a gift book.

Best so far? A Bridgeville woman recommended the book to her reading group and they bought 15. They invited me to come speak to them, which I happily agreed to do.

So I’m emboldened about the book’s prospects and am trying to conceive ways to gin up a lot of interest, in this case by using a man interested in drinking lots of gin.

When Buck said he wanted to buy the book, I said sure, but let’s conduct the transaction in the bar when it’s crowded.

“And let’s pretend you’re paying $50.”

He agreed, he said, as long as there was no way in hell he’d have to actually pay $50.

Deal.

And, boy, did we lay it on thick. We made the simple transaction seem like we were historic participants concluding the Louisiana Purchase negotiations.

It became in those few moments something more grand than a mere book. It was like literary Viagra or the cure for something itchy.

Alas, our little skit may have been too convincing because somebody stole Buck’s book.

“Yeah, I had it out upstairs and would stop and read a few pages, but I went by there about an hour ago and it was gone. I’d only read 10 pages.

Damn. I told him page 11 is when it really starts getting good!

I asked if he wouldn’t mind calling the police or the FBI to report the theft.

He declined.

I asked if we could do the whole thing over, again pretending a $20 was a $50.

He declined that, too.

He figures it’ll eventually turn up. He’s probably correct.

I fear he’ll soon report he found the book being used to prop up one of the restaurant’s dining room tables.

It’s a likely scenario.

Alas, the only thing more wobbly than the floors in this dear old building are my daffy bar analogies.

Related . . .

My new Tin Lizzy office

Jaffre’s opens today at Tin Lizzy!

Is the Tin Lizzy haunted?

My history of drinking at/near work

I’m loving cornhole! Who wants to join me?

My book is $20

I am America's drinking buddy

(819 words)

I’ve been surprised by the surge of people who’ve approached me urgently wanting to know where I’m going to be drinking now that Pond’s re-opening is here.

Am I going to continue frequenting the Tin Lizzy?

Or will I return to The Pond?

I was flattered my recreational time was of such pressing interest to so many people.

Then I had a troubling thought:

What if they were only interested in learning where I was going to drink so they could safely go to the other place?

Couldn’t be.

I’m America’s drinking buddy!

This dawned on me just last week when the bartender kept adding to my freebie inebriation.

“Stick around! Have another. It’s on me!”

If I had a free beer for every time I heard some bartender say that …

It’s always been that way. A neighborhood pub has been my natural habitat since about the 5th grade.

If it's true impairment begins with the first drink then I've been impaired since 1978.

I’m just perfectly comfortable in any dark tavern with a good jukebox and chatty loafers. I prefer cheerful bartenders but will certainly settle for surly.

It’s not so much that I love to drink, but I’ve always loved the people who do. So many of them are funny, opinionated, bombastic, prone to mood swings — the whole range of human emotions. And they’re surprisingly good listeners.

And I don’t just mean the ones who’ve fallen sound asleep on the bar.

For instance, I can tell a drunk guy the same joke five times on the same night and he’ll still each time laugh his head off like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard.

It doesn’t work like that with your wife.

A good tavern is just home to so much humanity. I think the more solitary time I spend writing the more I crave raucous free time alternatives.

I was explaining all this to my 23-year-old nephew, whom I adore and always have even when he was 6 and self-righteously assuring me and my tipsy father that drinking was going to kill us and send our souls to perdition, which I suppose is in a dry Bible Belt county run by satanic teetotalers.

My nephew was raised by fundamentalist religious fanatics who at an early age burned into his brain sanctimonious sermons about the evils of Demon Rum and, I guess recalling my late father’s preferences, Pabst Blue Ribbon.

Silly boy.

He didn’t realize then that everyone’s going to die.

It’s how you live that matters.

Sure, strong drink destroys a lot of families.

So does religious fanaticism.

I was happy all these years later to be sitting with that same kid Saturday afternoon in the Tin Lizzy, sharing some beers, and laughing about how he’d been misled.

I told him I like to think in this one regard I’m like Winston Churchill, a legendary imbiber whose drinking was often criticized by nitpickers who failed to appreciate he was the man who saved the free world from Adolph Hitler and was maybe the most interesting human being since Jesus.

“You never mind about my drinking,” Churchill said. “I’ve taken more out of alcohol than it’ll ever take out of me.”

Some will say he lived to be 90 years old.

They have it backwards.

He lived 90 years.

So the re-opening of The Pond puts me in a bind. The new owners are very nice and are attentive to the bar’s Latrobe legacy.

But I’ve fallen in love with the Tin Lizzy. They treat me great and it’s so much fun being here in this quirky old building.

Where will I drink?

The answer I think lies in a less likely role model than Churchill.

He’s Al Martin.

He played outfield for the Pittsburgh Pirates from 1992-99.

Lots of guys did that, many more effectively than the underachieving Martin. But when it was said Martin played the field, man, he really played the field.

He made the news in 2000 when it was revealed he had not one but two families living in Scottsdale just seven miles from one another. You’d think his wives would have met in the PTA.

The Pond and the Tin Lizzy are just one mile apart! 

I know it’s inevitable that if I miss a Friday at one I’m going to hear about it.

Area drinkers are demanding to know where my loyalties lie. Well, here you go:

Here and there!

I’m going to try and split my time between all my convivial friends.

Yes, America’s drinking buddy is going to be Latrobe’s bar polygamist.

I do so because I have a drive to support these great local businesses and to do my part to combat the silly demonization some feel towards places where I’ve always felt so much soulful serenity.

It’s a mission, a quest, a calling.

Let’s just call it a thirst.

Related . . .

Jaffre’s opens today at the Tin Lizzy!

My new office!

I’m lovin’ cornhole! Who wants to join me?

I’m being evicted from The Pond

The Pond is for sale! Anyone wanna buy a bar?

It’s a bobblehead world

The Pond’s new bartender debut … Me!

Regular bar patrons need personal seat licenses

“I love you, men!”

Thirsting for bar conversation

Re-run Sunday: "Today I pranked the trash man"

The Friday farewell story about my last day in the Pond office in just three days busted into my Top 10 most-read stories of all time. This is the August 2010 story it bumped from prominence.

Hope everyone has an enjoyable Sunday!

I guess it all starts with me wanting to be a garbage man. Some would say I achieved that goal from 1992-2000 when I worked for National Enquirer, a job that required sifting through the occasional trash bin.

But I’m not talking about a journalistic trash man.

I’m talking about the real thing.

As a boy, I’d thrill every time the big truck with the burly men hanging off the back came roaring up the road. They were big, noisy and boisterous. They’d seize the big barrels, frisbee the lids into the hedges and dump all our stinking trash into the cavernous back.

Then -- EERRRRGGGHH! -- they’d press the button and all the newspapers, food stuffs, bottles and cans we threw away before enlightened recycling began was devoured in the hungry maw.

I never dreamed of sitting in a small, still room all by myself spending hours crafting pointless stories destined to be ignored by the multitudes.

Geez, when I think of it in those stark terms, it’s a wonder I don’t run screaming over to Waste Management and beg them to let me jump on the back of a big green truck bound for the local dump.

And, really, why wouldn’t most men?

It’s real work.

Martin Luther King Jr. was slain while he was engaged trying to bestow common dignity to Memphis trash haulers. The association further ennobles my appreciation for the men who haul garbage.

That’s why this morning I’m feeling so ashamed. I played a malicious trick on a man who contributes so much more for society than I could ever hope to.

Yes, this morning I pranked the trash man.

I know every week on this day he shows up in pouring rain, sizzling sun and does his dirty duties. When the record February snows closed schools, streets and businesses, this two-man crew never missed a day or slipped off schedule.

And every day when they are out there behind The Pond, the tavern above which my office is strategically located, I stop whatever I’m doing and race to the window to watch.

It’s true. It takes them about 10 minutes to hook up the winch and raise the dumpster so all the bar trash falls into the truck. The two-man crew is so conscientious, I’ve never seen so much as a bottle cap drop onto the parking lot.

Then the shaven-headed guy with the sunny demeanor to match his tanned complexion reverses the procedure. The winch cable sets the dumpster back down near the fence between the lot and family home behind it.

It’s easier work than it used to be and safer, I’m sure, but there’s still potential to get a careless hand squashed by all the heavy lifting machinery.

Then baldy unhooks the cable, jumps back on the truck and is again on his merry way.

But earlier this spring I observed him adding a surprising natural function to the procedure.

He’d step behind the angled dumpster with his back to the fence. He’d remove his work gloves and set them on the big green bin. He’d look left. He’d look right. He’d look left again.

Even with his body concealed, any man and most worldly women could tell exactly what he was doing.

The trash man was urinating behind the dumpster!

It was broad daylight. It’s in a business parking lot that would soon be crowded with lunch patrons. It’s between two busy streets where people push strollers and walk their dogs.

It seemed so audacious. I was amazed. Certainly, I couldn’t begrudge him need for relief. It’s not likely a local restaurant or customer would welcome him into their homes to use the bathroom.

So a guy’s gonna do what a guy’s gotta to do.

Yet a surprisingly prim part of me felt compelled to signal that using my bar’s dumpster for a toilet was improper.

So today from behind the curtains of my second floor office, I lay in wait for him to answer nature’s call.

He did his job then he removed the gloves. He looked left. He looked right. He looked left again. I waited until he assumed the relaxed posture of a man whose bladder is beginning to spill.

Then I pushed the red panic button on my car fob. Not twenty feet to his left, the only car in the parking lot, my Saturn Vue, began rhythmically and loudly honking.

I don’t know how I expected him to react, but here’s what happened:

He jumped as if he’d been tased. His feet left the ground. His expression was similar to that of a jewel thief caught in the act.

A weekly routine of his that usually lasted in excess of 50 seconds was over in 8.

Startled, he zipped up and zipped back into the truck. In a flash, he and the truck were gone. Only an echo of the engine remained amid the swirling stink.

And there behind the cowardly curtain, I began to laugh. I laughed my ass off for about 10 minutes. And now an hour later, every couple of minutes, I’m still chuckling.

It was one of the funniest things I’ve ever seen.

And I feel small because of it.

It was a dirty, low-down trick on a noble, hard-working man doing a job few admire and fewer would do.

I know some day I’ll need to make amends.

One day I’ll see him in that parking lot and I’m going to apologize. I’ll tell him about my dirty trick and that the prankster in me just couldn’t resist.

Then I’ll offer my hand in apology and respect. I hope he’ll shake it.

And if he does, I know exactly what I’m going to do next.

I’ll rush straight to the bathroom and give that hand a really good scrubbing.

Related . . .

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