I suffer from a glibness deficit

(729 words)

This is going to surprise anyone who remembers me from the days when I’d race nude across campus at Ohio University, but I’m really kind of shy.

Not in general. I enjoy conversation and meeting strangers.

But I’m terrible at parties, especially when I’m by myself, as I was last night at a corporate mixer on the Gateway Clipper on Pittsburgh’s Monongahela River. I last year became a VisitPittsburgh partner in the hopes it would lead to more local speaking engagements.

It has. Plus, the VisitPittsburgh people are great. They’ve been uniformly warm and encouraging. And they have these great monthly socials.

There’s food, drink and the happy buzz of motivated and engaged people ambitious to achieve shared goals.

And I’m so not one of them.

I just don’t have the icebreaker persona that would lead me to barge into any of the little conversational teepees bubbling throughout the ballroom.

So I stand all alone in the corner, nursing my drink, resisting the urge to check my phone and wondering if I should just dash out the door.

It wouldn’t be the first time. I once bolted a truly world-class party because I was alone and uncomfortable.

It was the year 2000 and Maxim Magazine invited me and other contributors to a gaudy bash in an dingy warehouse in Manhattan’s trendy Chelsea neighborhood.

Moby was the celebrity DJ; guests included Madonna and Gwyneth Paltrow.

The room was throbbing with excitement.

I hated it.

It’s amazing I left so early because it was one of those parties where I was certain I could have gotten laid.

By Madonna!

But I was bored. I went down the street to a reliably divey bar and watched the baseball game.

I think I suffer from a glibness deficit.

I guess in the eyes of Tom Cruise that’s okay.

Remember in 2005 while promoting “War of the Worlds,” Cruise became enraged at Matt Lauer for daring to suggest some prescribed drugs can produce positive results.

Cruise, shaking his head in disbelief said, “Matt, Matt, Matt, Matt — you don’t even know — you’re glib.” 

Glib means performed with ease and informality; superficial or insincere.

It hasn’t gotten any better for Laurer in the past 11 years. He’s still glib, but now he’s also bald.

But right when I was thinking I could probably use some of Lauer’s glibness my isolation was shattered by recognition.

A voice from across the room yelled, “Hey, Rodell, you’re a (sounds like) truckin’ bassmole!”

I beamed with joy. I was someone! Truly, being called a (sounds like) truckin’ bassmole is preferable to the soft pain of nothingness.

In fact, it was someone who’d heard me speak and felt familiar enough with my sense of humor to address me with profanity.

He was right. I busted out laughing.

And the night started to get better. He introduced me to a friendly circle of people and several of them, too, had heard me speak and were very flattering.

It was such a relief to be included.

It’s good to be aware of the feeling, I’m sure, because it pushes me to reach out anytime I see someone looking alone and uncomfortable in the bar or at a party where I’m on familiar turf.

It’s what we should all do.

I rounded out the night with a great conversation with another wallflower who felt the same.

We talked for 30 minutes about our families, our travels and how we’d rather sit in a bar and talk than be on the social death march of a forced mingle.

For those on the outside, they’re like high school reunions only without any awkward history of necking or study hall wedgies.

But I wound up staying the whole time and, boy, am glad I did because when it was time for the concluding raffle, my name was drawn.

“And the winner is Chris Rodell and ‘Use All The Crayons!’”

The prize was a $50 gift certificate from Pamela’s Diner in Pittsburgh.

We love Pamela’s! Everyone does.

I’m so glad I stayed. Winning the gift certificate just ratified what I was already feeling.

I am a winner. It’s just that some party-goers haven’t gotten the word yet.

But I don’t regret past party departures.

Leaving a party with something from Pamela’s was way better than leaving a party with anything I’d have likely gotten from Madonna.

Related …

Enough already! Awash in staples

Matt Lauer’s got the blues

This blog a Pittsburgh “best of.” No kidding!

Random thoughts on Letterman, speaking and my weenie ways

Super Bowl recap

I woke up this morning feeling like I let Gisele down. I should have prayed harder for Tommi.

• My last sentence for my Saturday post was, “My prediction: Giants 27, Patriots 17. Wake me when it’s over.” What was I thinking? I guess I was fearful the game would be an overblown bore. Wrong. It was a classic.

• My score prediction, however, was closer than many of the best experts and only six points from perfection. Lot of good it did me. I haven’t made a wager in years. Not because I lack the nerve. Freelance writing for a living is a higher stakes gamble than any game of chance.

• The ads for movies next year promise another year of blockbusters stinkers. Special effects haven’t been special since “Jurassic Park.” The new Sacha Baron Cohen movie “The Dictator” looked funny.

• I would have loved a few more plays of watching the Giants try not to score. Why didn’t they just play stall ball? Manning could have taken the snap and just stood there for at least 10 seconds until the Pats had to act. Or he could have just run in reverse. It happens during hockey penalty kills all the time. I used to excel at the maneuver myself when I was an outstanding amateur hockey player. And it’s indicative of my humility that I don’t write about those days more often.

• Seeing Madonna performing with a microphone had me wondering about nipples. Not hers. Mine. Mine are about as unnecessary as her microphone. Why the charade? I was disappointed we didn’t see any nipples, but M.I.A. showed us her finger. I’m all for anything that’ll infuriate the family values crowd, but this was just lame. Of course, before I had no idea of her existence and now I'll never forget her and I guess that was the point.

• I was at a pre-concert press conference with Garth Brooks about 10 years ago. It was just after Madonna had released her dirty book, "Sex," with all those naked pictures of herself and various animals and, I think, Vanilla Ice. I asked with a straight-face if, given the ardent reaction of his female fans, if Brooks had ever considered doing a book like hers. I caught him mid-drink and so off guard he almost shot Pepsi through his nostrils. Had he, it would have been a high-light of my career.

• In four months, Boston fans have suffered two of the most crushing defeats I can recall. The Red Sox blew a 9 game lead with just three weeks left in the season and were knocked out in the last inning of the last game. Coupled with yesterday’s loss, the pall over New England must be impenetrable. I wish I could be there to rub it in. No region raced from lovable losers to obnoxious winners more quickly than New England. Plus, their baseball championships are tainted with performance enhancers, their football with Bill Belichick’s Spygate. Read Ed Bouchette’s great article in Sunday’s Pittsburgh Post-Gazette. The scandal was worse than you thought.

• I thought most of the ads were great. I liked the Rocky-theme one, but wish for jingoistic reasons it had featured an American car company, rather than Hyundai. I liked the Elton John Pepsi one (I sense he enjoys playing dress-up), the Bud Light one about the dog named Weego, and the cat-killing dog. The Seinfeld commercial for Acura was decent, but will get worse and more boring with each viewing.

• Madonna didn’t do anything to disgrace herself -- well, no more than she’s done for the past 25 years. But I kept wondering why the NFL thinks its fans want to watch this kind of circus. In fact, I’d prefer the circus, i.e. Ringling Bros. The only part I enjoyed was the acrobat on the slack line. I’d like next year to see them bring the cat trainer I saw during Mallory Point sunset festivities at Key West.

• I loved the Clint Eastwood commercial celebrating Detroit’s resurgence -- thanks President Obama! I guess it was supposed to remind us of Eastwood’s iconic role in “Gran Torino.” Worked with me. I’d love a half-time show that featured just 30 minutes of clips of Eastwood in “The Outlaw Josie Wales,” “The Good, The Bad & The Ugly,” “In The Line of Fire,” etc.

• Four months ago Giant fans were calling for the firing of coach Tom Coughlin and questioning the leadership abilities of Eli Manning. Eight months from today, bet on it, Giant fans will be calling for the firing of coach Tom Coughlin and questioning the leadership abilities Eli Manning. It’s because 20 percent of the American public are absolute idiots and 80 percent of them are rabid NFL fans.

• Another prediction of mine coming to pass: I said Gisele Bundchen was bound to become the Yoko Ono of the Patriots. It’s all over the news that she’s blaming Tommi’s teammates for the loss.

• Just 15 days until pitchers and catchers report!

Earth's plans to occupy Kepler-22b

The first thing that crossed my mind when I heard there was an Earth-like planet 600 light years away was an optimistic hunch that it had Subways.

NASA planet-hunters say the sphere they’re dubbing Kepler-22b is likely to have all the critical elements necessary to sustain human life.

To me that means Subway.

It would be fun to gauge the instant reactions of our fellow Earthlings when they heard a life-sustaining planet was discovered.

I’m sure the Republicans thought, “Hallelujah! Now, there’s a place the lousy Democrats can Occupy for as long as they want!”

The Democrats thought, “You can bet greedy Republicans are already packing their Louis Vuitton suitcases, drilling rigs and barrels of Halliburton fracking liquids to exploit yet another pristine wilderness before Obama declares it off-limits.”

There’s a natural human euphoria when we find a place no one’s ever been, a place we can call our very own.

Pilgrims felt it when they landed in what they called the New World, a place that had been inhabited by Native Americans for tens of thousands of years. What followed was more than 400 years of mutual hostility, betrayal and genocide culminating in saturation casino gaming and Facebook fights over whether sports mascots for teams with names like Redskins were tributary or mockery.

See, that’s the thing.

This Kepler-22b -- and, geez, couldn’t we please get someone with a spark of creativity on the NASA planet-naming squad? -- is, as mentioned, 600 light years from Earth.

Do you know what a light year is?

Shame on you if you said it’s a unit of measurement that’s less filling than a regular year.

A light year is 5.9 trillion miles. That means it would take about 22 million years for the space shuttle to get there (better hope they opted for the lifetime subscription to satellite radio).

What worries me is how the NASA scientists all seemed to exhale when they heard there’s another planet we can inhabit, as if it relieves some of the pressure to treat this one with a little more care and dignity.

“This is a phenomenal discovery in the course of human history,” said University of California, Berkeley, Geoff Marcy. “This discovery shows that we Homo sapiens are straining our reach into the universe to find planets that remind us of home. We are almost there.”

He makes it sound like we’re going to land on Kepler-22b and be delightfully surprised to find drapes on all the windows.

It’s like he’s putting a downpayment on a new home when this one’s in such sad shape no one would ever dream of buying it, an interstellar version of how we got into the subprime mortgage mess.

We Earthlings are so stricken with wanderlust.

We’re always in a crazy rush to get to the next someplace different.

We can’t be satisfied inhabiting our own neighborhoods and making pleasing improvements to what’s already ours.

I’m as guilty as the next guy. I dream of what it would be like to board the first transport to distant Kepler-22b, just past, I’m guessing, Kepler-22a and Kepler -- if you start seeing signs for Kepler-22d, you know you’ve gone too far.

Imagine, leaving Earth and all you’ve ever known and loved behind for an unknown future 22 million years away.

Sound scary?

Heck, I’d go tomorrow if it meant I’d miss Madonna performing at the Super Bowl halftime show.