RRS: Me & "Ticket To Ride" turn 52 today!

Today is my birthday! I’m 52. That means if years were degrees, I’d be 52 degrees warmer than the temperature outside. I’m glad this year’s birthday falls on a Sunday so I don’t feel obliged to blog about the mini-milestone. But it is a very happy day. My family makes me feel loved and I hear from so many friends, old and new. Makes me wish I could have a big party to thank everyone for their good wishes.

I almost re-ran the 2013 post from when I turned 50 (it is linked below), but I thought this from when I turned 49 was more appropriate. It’s about how the day I was born was the same day The Beatles were in the studio recording “Ticket to Ride.” I find that very cool.

My mother never even knew I was born.

I don’t mean that in one of those whiny, mama-never-loved-me ways. She loved me. Still does. Most of the time. I think.

But she never remembered anything about my birth.

“The nurse came in and brought me this big breakfast. I said there was a mistake. I told her, ‘Nurse, I’m not allowed to eat anything. I’m here to have a baby.’ The nurse looked at me and said, ‘You can eat anything you want. You had the baby yesterday.’ She walked out of the room shaking her head.”

They’d loaded Mom up with so many thought-deadening drugs she has no recollection of my delivery. Her forgetfulness will make dandy fodder for birther conspiracy theorists should I ever run for president.

I don’t know where I was for any of this. You’d think I’d have been with her snuggling nourishment or at least brushing her cigarette ashes off my little head.

Maybe Dad took me out to the bars to show me off to his buddies.

Seems like I’ve been there ever since.

I turn 49 today. And that’s the actual age, even though I’m aware it sounds made-up like someone who’s afraid to say they’re 50.

I hope to turn 50 next year although tomorrow is promised to no one so I’m not about to get all cocky over the presumption.

Both Galileo and Simpson’s creator Matt Groening share my birthday, as do Cesar Romero (The Joker; “Batman”), Alan Arbus (Dr. Sidney Freedman; “M*A*S*H”), Kinks drummer Mick Avory and “Survivor” cutie and Pittsburgh native Jenna Morasca.

The birthday episode of the uproarious “My Name is Earl” was first broadcast on a Feb. 15 so I’ve always claimed Earl Hickey as a birthday mate.

Two more: Seattle Slew was born today in 1974 and “Ticket to Ride” recorded in 1965.

The latter suffers from confused parentage. John Lennon says Paul McCartney did none of the writing and Paul McCartney says he contributed at least 40 percent.

It’s terrible when estranged parents fight over the kids.

They also argue about the tune’s meaning. Paul says the title referred to Ryde, a small Isle of Wight town on the British Railways line; John says it referred to health cards indicating German hookers were disease-free enough to “ride,” ride being German slang for sex.

I guess the best birthday I ever had was my 19th. I was a freshman at Ohio University in Athens, then as now home to the No. 1 party school in America. My real brother came into the TV room at the old fraternity house where we both lived and wished me a happy birthday in front of all my great ceremonial brothers.

Right away, two of the older guys said they were taking me to lunch.

It had been a harsh winter in southeastern Ohio. But this day was unseasonably warm. The snows were gone and every one of the 14,000 students and most of the carefree professors were looking for an excuse to party.

We had a two-hour lunch at The Pub and stepped back out into the warm spring sunshine.

The quarter-mile walk back to the fraternity house became like a pre-social media flash mob. Every single door we passed opened and someone friendly or beautiful emerged happy to see us.

And everyone of them was carrying a six pack.

The fun lasted all night and it was one of the greatest parties I’ve ever been to and I just happened to be the cause of it.

I wish something like that could happen again today. The world needs more impromptu parties in the spring sunshine.

I mention this all today because it’s now impossible to duck our birthdays. I’ve heard from dozens of friends on Facebook who sent birthday wishes.

Thank you, one and all. I hope all the good wishes for me to have a great day come true and then boomerang right back onto you.

I don’t expect any impromptu parties to blossom on this still-wintry day. It’ll all be low-key and that’s fine with me.

I’ll be happy to spend my 49th with my wife and daughters. They’re taking me out to dinner tonight at Rizzo’s Malabar Inn, my favorite Italian restaurant. We’ll have pasta, some wine and a bunch of happy laughter.

And then, if the kids get to bed early enough, this lucky birthday boy may get a ticket to ride.

Yes, it’s always been a dream of mine to celebrate my birthday on England’s Isle of Wight.

Related . . .  

Happy 50th Birthday to Me!

I turned 50 and no one noticed — me included!

Back behind bars: me

(689 words)

 I’ve hinted before at positive developments regarding my prospects. I’ve been offered my first sizable speaking fee and major corporations are considering bringing me in to share my book’s message.

I’ve never felt this encouraged before. Ever. It’s all coming together.

So wouldn’t you know it, just yesterday a buddy offered me a great job right here in Latrobe. Decent pay, easy hours, and a guarantee I’ll be surrounded by smiling faces.

Yes, when it rains, it pours.

Just one problem: Accepting means I’ll have to switch sides. Not political or sexual orientation. It’s bigger than that.

I’ll be going from one side of the bar to the other.

Due to a tumultuous spasm of bar employee turnover, Dave, the owner of The Pond, is down key people in the kitchen and now behind the bar. He called me last night sounding distraught.

Our stalwart friend quit for reasons that are, for now, none of our business.

But Dave needed help.

“I’m really stuck,” he said. “I don’t know how I’m going to fill all his hours on such short notice. I know you used to tend bar  . . .”

What he was in effect saying was “Rudolph, with your nose so bright . . .”

And, please, I’m sensitive about my budding gin blossoms so let’s right there end all the bright red nose analogies.

But he was correct. I was once, ahem, one of the best bartenders in Athens, Ohio, which means I was one of the best bartenders on the planet and that at the time included stunt bartender Tom Cruise who was starring a popular movie called, “Cocktail.”

And by “one of the best,” I mean I was never fired for not showing up or being too drunk to tug on a tap.

Me and about a dozen good buddies all worked at what was then the biggest bar in Athens, The Nickelodeon, from 1983-85.

Ah, the ‘80s. MTV ruled pop culture, New Coke was just beginning to tickle our fickle taste buds, E.T. was phoning home via old rotary dial, Live Aid promised to end hunger in Africa and the only cultural figure more imposing than the California Cowboy in the White House was the black man on NBC.

I’m talking T.

Mr. T.

Besides starring on “The A-Team,” Mr. T also played an inspirational role in what I remember as the most monumental night of my bartending career.

One of the biggest sellers at the time was the Long Island Iced Tea. It’s a still-popular drink that includes gin, tequila, light rum, vodka, triple sec, a dash of sour mix, all topped with a little jolt of cola.

Having an entrepreneurial bent, my buddy Jim and I decided we’d give America a heady counter-point to the Long Island Iced Tea.

We set out to make the Mr. T.

Like its namesake, it would be big, black and pack a real wallop.

It pains me in hindsight to consider how much good booze we wasted trying to make something even remotely palatable.

The real pity is when we finally found a robust and drinkable mix it was about 1 p.m. and we were too drunk to remember to write down any of the key ingredients. The recipe is today lost to history.

Val’s always wondered why I haven’t sought a job tending bar before. She’d say, “You’re always in there anyway. Might as well get paid instead of just sitting around drinking beer and BSing your life away.”

I tell you, she’s a regular Dr. Phil.

So, of course, I’ll step in and help my friend in his time of need and make sure his thirsty customers don’t go empty.

I can be Dr. Fill, too!

So there’s a chance I’ll be back where many of my old high school teachers predicted I’d eventually wind up all along: behind bars.

I’ll expect my customers to stay within the bounds of established bar decorum. Any questions about exactly what that means regarding levels of drunkenness and potential for inadvertent nudity, just ask your bartender.

That’ll be me. My rule will be absolute.

When I pour, I reign.

Related

No. 1 party boy from No. 1 party school

Grinnin’ at mammogram confusion

Merry March Madness!

Happy 49th birthday to me!

When Facebook becomes Fakebook

I did something yesterday for which I’m feeling justifiably small: I tried to bust someone for fibbing on Facebook.

It’s not exactly “60 Minutes” going after Big Tobacco, is it.

And I should know better.

Facebook is a perfectly innocuous place where we all go to post our prettiest pictures and give the shared impression we all live in a happy, shiny place free of discord and things that smell, although I’ll bet Zuckerberg’s about to force that function on us all.

It brings old friends and classmates together and connects those with shared interests. In these divisive times, we need more, not less, of that.

So why did I feel instantly compelled to expose what I suspected was deceit?

Because I feared it was being perpetrated in the name of George, one of my all-time very best buddies.

It’s not a stretch to say it was George who taught me how to drink, which means George taught me all I know.

George and I met in the dorms and became fast friends.

I remember sitting in the library that first week bored out of my mind and saying to George, man, we’ve been bearing down on this algebra for 10 excruciating minutes and we still don’t get it. What ever are we going to do?

“Well, we could leave and go to a bar,” he said.

His remark showed a genius Ohio University transcripts failed to detect. The state drinking age at the time was 18. Athens was strewn with bars. He was right. We could go to a bar! And that’s exactly what we did.

And we never left.

He’s the one guy old friends always ask about when they call to catch up. “Have you heard from George?” they’ll ask. “Is he on Facebook?

I talk to him every six months or so. The sound of his laugh takes me back to some of the happiest days in my life. But, no, he’s not on Facebook. He’s too cool for that.

That’s why I was shocked to see a burst of George behaving very uncool on Facebook yesterday. He was posting pictures of his kids, his wife and the captions said things like how much he loved these people.

I thought he only loved me.

And Anheuser-Busch.

I suspected fraud and immediately posted the comment: “If this is really George posting these pictures, then what’s Brad Wiseman’s middle name?”

This was a serious breach of Facebook etiquette. I should have posted, “George, you have a beautiful family! Like! Like! Like!”

But this was George -- and let’s say that’s not his real name and that he’s not married to someone really named Jeannine.

Instantly, one of George’s relatives responded, “Quick, Jeannine, get off the computer and ask George what Brad Wiseman’s middle name is!”

An hour or so went by and finally George typed in the single word “Boner,” which was wrong but Alex Trebek would have accepted. Boner was Brad’s nickname.

Then he came back after about 15 minutes and typed, “Lon,” which was correct. Brad had the uncommon middle name Lon and the nickname “Boner” for reasons I won’t dare reveal.

By now I was beginning to realize feelings were being hurt. So I typed, hey, it was just a little test I conduct to make sure people aren’t using the internet for less than pure purposes. Because no one wants that.

And today I feel bad. I sanctimoniously suspected Jeannine had hacked into George’s computer to make him look even more perfect than he’s always been.

Even worse, just three days ago I perpetrated an even more egregious fraud.

I’ve long been frustrated by my inability to lure more people onto my languishing @8days2amish Twitter account.

In fact, reaching 190 followers last week seemed an opportune time to run a sweepstakes. I tweeted, “Anyone who helps me get to 200 followers by 5 pm gets a free signed copy of “Use All The Crayons!”

The result? By 5 p.m. four once steadfast followers bailed on me. I was down to 186.

So on Sunday I decided to take matters into my own hands. I snuck onto my wife’s laptop and signed her up for a Twitter account so “she” could follow me.

But I didn’t do anything as innocuous as I suspected Jeannine did. No, I really upped the ante.

I signed her up under the user name @ILuvChrisRodell! I figured I could use it for a clearinghouse for things I wish she’d say about me, but has never had the grounds to. Things like: “He’s a spectacular lover! . . . He’s a great provider! . . . He’s, uh, honest!”

And because I wanted to bestow my darling new follower with intellectual superiority, I signed her up to follow Barack Obama, the Dalai Lama, Maya Angelou, Nelson Mandela, Ann Coulter -- and me!

And I have the nerve to doubt the authenticity of my old friend’s innocent posts.

So I feel bad about my petty suspicions. Because I @LuvGeorgeNJeannine.

I really, really do.

I’ll swear it on a whole stack of internets.

NCAA slams Penn State

I indulged in a momentary my-school’s-better-than-your-school gloat this weekend after reading my dear alma mater claimed yet another national championship.

Yes, as re-posted Sunday, Ohio University was again named by the No. 1 party school in America.

“We’re Not . . . Penn State! We’re Not . . . Penn State!”

A friend said this weekend I’ve been strangely silent on the Penn State scandals. I apologize for giving that impression and think I’ve been current.

I wrote about my November first impressions here, and here in January where I wondered why Paterno had a closed casket and if he wore to his spiritual destination those big dorky glasses.

I said briefly here that I think they should have left the Paterno statue intact, but they should have added a statue of a small, frightened little boy being ignored by the Paterno statue.

Sure I could have written about it more, but I’m reluctant to spend an hour or so a day engaging in topics that make my skin crawl.

But today everyone’s talking about the devastating NCAA penalties and I feel compelled to share my thoughts.

So here you go: I’m glad I went a school where no one knew the names of who coached what and the only asses that got kissed where the ones that belonged to the bartenders bestowed with the power to cheapen or accelerate our inebriation.

What do I think about the NCAA, renown as it is for boneheaded logic, demolishing the football program’s near-term viability and vacating 111 of Paterno’s wins from 1998 through 2011, the span during which Paterno knew about Sandusky’s heinous crimes and allowed them to endure?

I think, “Touchdown! Yes! Let’s go for 2!”

If I could find a big foam finger with “NCAA!” etched on it, I’d be waving it around. I think it’s a good first step in dismantling a national culture of elevating to god-like status men who coach Division I college football.

I wholeheartedly approve of anything that will diminish the deification of big time college sports.

How the NCAA even exerted jurisdiction in a criminal matter is subject to debate, but that Penn State doesn’t contest the penalties is telling.

Like Watergate, the school scandal was about those in power engaging in criminal activities to maintain power.

It’s about JoePa’s lust to be the best coach ever and to ensure he could keep zooming around in private jets even as he knew his once-trusted assistant had an on-going appetite for raping boys.

It’s about people looking the other way because doing the right thing could be harmful to something they cherish.

The severe penalties are reminders we need to cherish our children over our potential bowl bids.

I keep thinking about the millions of Nittany Lion fans who today are devastated that a huge part of their identity has been disgraced. They know nasty co-workers are snickering about their crushed affections.

To them, I say, “Get over it. You made the mistake of attaching your identity to something you couldn’t control. Enjoy your memories, but from now on be your own best role model.”

I’m always left out when I go on fancy press trips with other mostly male writers. Invariably, they will bond over college football while I sit there feeling like I’m my wife.

She graduated from Penn State and has joyful memories of her time there. She enjoyed going to fall football games and has her brush with JoePa story, but no one would ever know she went to Penn State unless they asked.

Like me, she has great college memories of going to a wonderful university where a small percent of the students happened to play football. But she’d never let it define her.

I’m tired of seeing tawdry behavior from people we rightly expect to inspire.

Maybe that’s why it seems I’ve been uncommonly silent on Penn State. It seemed like we were so awash in a culture that was hidebound determined to never change I just felt, gee, what’s the use?

I felt like I didn’t have much to say.

Yesterday, the NCAA spoke for me.

Re-run Sunday! Ohio U. No. 1 party school again!

Now, how did you expect I'd react to the news that Ohio University was once again the No. 1 Party School in America? Write something scholarly?

Heck no. I'll, of course, re-post this boozy love letter to the place where I became, for better or worse, who I am.

It’s probably because of my years at Ohio University I drink responsibly whenever I should and irresponsibly whenever I can.

It’s a vast over-simplification to say, but the only thing I can recall learning with any clarity there from 1981-1985 was never mix Ouzo and beer. In the same glass.

We used to do that all the time and, guaranteed, whenever we did someone was bound to lose their pants.

You can’t spell bourbon or ouzo without OU.

It was a fountain of knowledge where I went to drink.

Those were some of the T-shirts they sold on campus when I was there. I still see variations of them when I go back once every year or so to see the old gang.

We fly or drive in from all over the country and get two or three rooms at the diviest hotel down near the Hocking River. In a town where big guys are called “Tiny,” the hotel on the lowest point in southeastern Ohio is called The Highlander.

Tell someone who attended most any other college a group of 40 somethings are going to go back to the university they all attended in the 1980s and many assume lecherous activities will ensue.

They think the guys will slip off their wedding rings and spend their nights chasing around the comely innocents.

This is wrong on multiple levels. First: I never met an innocent at OU, not to be confused, please, with Ohio State University in Columbus.

Second: most of us are too fatigued and too wise to chase anything anymore.

Third -- and this is key: there’s not a soul within a 50-mile radius more important to us than the dozen or so people clustered around those tables tilting from too many pitchers of beer.

It was after leaving Athens I began to understand games were for people who were inept at the art of conversation.

Why would you engage in any distraction that kept you from learning more about the people sitting right next to you?

Those were some of the things that crossed my mind when I learned Ohio University was named by the Princeton Review as the No. 1 Party School in America.

It’s a chicken and egg sort of question, but I didn’t go to Athens because it was a party school. But I did go there because at the time the Ohio drinking age was 18.

I learned later on -- surprise! -- it had a great school for journalism. Hey, I liked to journalize!

If anything exceeds its reputation for being a party school, it is its reputation for grooming dynamic journalists.

Media big shots Roger Ailes and Matt Lauer graduated from there. Legendary actor Paul Newman dropped out of there.

My academic achievements fall somewhere deep in the middle of that spectrum.

I remember when I went for one of my first post-graduate interviews. It was at the Nashville Banner. The managing editor, a fine southern gentleman, saw Ohio University on my resume and asked if that’s where Woody Hayes coached.

No, sir, that was Zero State in Columbus.

“How long were you on the school paper?” he asked.

One year, I told him.

“What’d you do the other three years, drink beer?”

Yes, sir.

“Good. I did it for four.”

In a world where crabby tight asses seem to make all the rules and then more rules regarding the original rules, convivial folk will always have a way of finding one another.

I got that job and it was instrumental in launching a career that has led me to friendships with some of the world’s most fascinating individuals.

Athens was where I became who I am.

So cheers, Ohio University. I’ve been under your influence for 30 years now.

And gloriously under the influence for many of those years.

And it’s all just been one hell of a good time.

Re-run Friday? Go Bobcats!

One of my favorite songs is the Joe Ely 1992 version of the Robert Earl Keen song, “The Road Goes on Forever (and the Party Never Ends).”

You’re to be forgiven if you think it’s about a golf writer on assignment to write about the golf and grub along the northern rim of the Gulf of Mexico.

But this road’s been going on a long time and the party’s end is no where in sight. Just got into Gulf Shores and will be playing the fabulous Kiva Dunes.

Then I’ll nestle into the club’s grille room to watch my Ohio Bobcats try and unseat the first seeded North Carolina Tar Heels. So I thought in honor of Athens and the Bobcats, I’d re-run this August post from the day it was announced Ohio U. was once again named the No. 1 party school in America.

Go Bobcats! I’m proud to know you.

It’s probably because of my years at Ohio University I drink responsibly whenever I should and irresponsibly whenever I can.

It’s a vast over-simplification to say, but the only thing I can recall learning with any clarity there from 1981-1985 was never mix Ouzo and beer. In the same glass.

We used to do that all the time and, guaranteed, whenever we did someone was bound to lose their pants.

You can’t spell bourbon or ouzo without OU.

It was a fountain of knowledge where I went to drink.

Those were some of the T-shirts they sold on campus when I was there. I still see variations of them when I go back once every year or so to see the old gang.

We fly or drive in from all over the country and get two or three rooms at the diviest hotel down near the Hocking River. In a town where big guys are called “Tiny,” the hotel on the lowest point in southeastern Ohio is called The Highlander.

Tell someone who attended most any other college a group of 40 somethings are going to go back to the university they all attended in the 1980s and many assume lecherous activities will ensue.

They think the guys will slip off their wedding rings and spend their nights chasing around the comely innocents.

This is wrong on multiple levels. First: I never met an innocent at OU, not to be confused, please, with Ohio State University in Columbus.

Second: most of us are too fatigued and too wise to chase anything anymore.

Third -- and this is key: there’s not a soul within a 50-mile radius more important to us than the dozen or so people clustered around those tables tilting from too many pitchers of beer.

It was after leaving Athens I began to understand games were for people who were inept at the art of conversation.

Why would you engage in any distraction that kept you from learning more about the people sitting right next to you?

Those were some of the things that crossed my mind when I learned Ohio University was named by the Princeton Review as the No. 1 Party School in America.

It’s a chicken and egg sort of question, but I didn’t go to Athens because it was a party school. But I did go there because at the time the Ohio drinking age was 18.

I learned later on -- surprise! -- it had a great school for journalism. Hey, I liked to journalize!

If anything exceeds its reputation for being a party school, it is its reputation for grooming dynamic journalists.

Media big shots Roger Ailes and Matt Lauer graduated from there. Legendary actor Paul Newman dropped out of there.

My academic achievements fall somewhere deep in the middle of that spectrum.

I remember when I went for one of my first post-graduate interviews. It was at the Nashville Banner. The managing editor, a fine southern gentleman, saw Ohio University on my resume and asked if that’s where Woody Hayes coached.

No, sir, that was Zero State in Columbus.

“How long were you on the school paper?” he asked.

One year, I told him.

“What’d you do the other three years, drink beer?”

Yes, sir.

“Good. I did it for four.”

In a world where crabby tight asses seem to make all the rules and then more rules regarding the original rules, convivial folk will always have a way of finding one another.

I got that job and it was instrumental in launching a career that has led me to friendships with some of the world’s most fascinating individuals.

Athens was where I became who I am.

So cheers, Ohio University. I’ve been under your influence for 30 years now.

And gloriously under the influence for many of those years.

And it’s all just been one hell of a good time.