It's my new car! Yeah right ...

(668 words)

My family is disappointed I’m not more excited about having purchased what they’re misleadingly calling my “new” car.

Setting aside the fact that one of the keys to happiness is to avoid letting the emotional reactions of others determine yours, I’m a stickler for accuracy and reject their description that my car is “new.”

“Current” is better. So is “latest.” Or “most recent.”

But a 2004 Honda Pilot with 162,413 miles is far from new. So far from new, in fact, I’m already nervous about the times I’ll drive it far from home. I’m talking Derry.

My daughters are 18 and 13. They’re not new either. I tried to give them some perspective.

“That so-called ‘new’ car is now old enough that if it were a person it could get a driver’s license and legally drive itself to the high school where it would be enrolled as a junior.”

“New? If there were a boy conceived in its backseat he today would be able to cruise for chicks who’ll join for in that same backseat for a joyful boink. Circle of life, baby.”

See, I’m not a car guy conversant in engine specs, brake projections and maximum horsepower. Car guys can talk all night about tranny performance potential.

Me, when I hear about potential tranny performances, I prepare to defend my LBGTQ sisters/brothers/others against the latest divisive Trump tweet.

My idea of a new car involves the euphoric feelings that result when George Gray says it’s a new car. Or more descriptively, when George Gray says, “It’s a new car!”

Gray is “The Price is Right” studio announcer and when he says a car is new he means it’s never been driven, it’s clean, no one’s screwed in the back seat (former host Bob Barker doesn’t count). When George Gray says it’s a new car, by God, it’s a new car.

It would be funny to see the reaction of the show’s reliably hysterical studio audience if George Gray said, “It’s a new car!” and out rolled my 2004 Honda Pilot. The reaction would be the same as if George Gray announced to 200 3rd graders on Christmas Eve, “There is no Santa Claus!”

Buying a new car should be confetti, balloons, hugs and handshakes and a happy family road trip to see how she rides.

Buying this car involved whispered assessments of used car salesman trustworthiness, prayers it will start and persistent worries the stale fart smell ain’t going no where.

Plus, I now have to decide what to do with the “old” vehicle, the one that’s three years younger than the “new” one.

I remember when it was new. It had that intoxicating aroma, the non-fart kind. The ride was quiet and smooth. The only bells and whistles it didn’t have were actual bells and whistles. 

The worst part is now being daily forced to confront the fact that I’m this far into my what-for-lack-of-a-better word must call my “career” and my only option was to buy a $2,600 “new” car I’m not sure I can trust to get me the 1.2 miles to the place I, gulp, earn my living (and spend it).

Where, oh, where did I go wrong?

It was probably in 2008 right around when the free On-Star subscription expired.

The situation has me fearful of what’s next when my new car overnight becomes old — and this is no hypothetical. It’ll be old in every sense of the word by Thursday breakfast.

It’s unlikely my earning power will increase significantly in the next 16 hours. 

The next step could be a car that runs on actual steps like the one Fred Flintstone hoofed around Bedrock.

Despite the humiliation, It could be my destiny. Really, all I need is a scooter with a decent stereo or maybe a horse that sings.

The latter might be better cause then I could talk to the car guys about real horsepower and not sound like some kind of jackass.

Related …

Wrecked my car, ripped my shirt; bad day

Florida rental car abuse

Cars need sleep mode

Tech troubles & why I post when I do

(895 words)

I've long said being a freelance writer is like being adrift in a rubber raft in storm-tossed waters far out at sea. There is isolation and often grave concern.

And that being a freelance writer with tech problems is like being in that rubber raft and suddenly hearing an urgent hiss.

It's deflating in every sense of the word.

This week I'm hearing the hiss. It's my turn for computer troubles.

That explains why I didn't post anything Thursday or Friday.

Well, that and March Madness. Those are two of my favorite days of the year, so I probably wouldn't have filed anything Thursday.

This is upsetting to some of my friends. They enjoy reading the blog and not having it show up with the frequency they've come to expect is unsettling.

It's unsettling to me, too. If I don't post at least four times a week I fear people will stop paying attention and will get out of the habit so they can devote more time to priority porn.

What's surprising is how many readers complain if I miss a day or do something that makes it look like I slept in a bit.

It's like they think I'm cheating the boss like I used to when I was earning an actual paycheck to write way back in 1992. People seem to forget I don't earn a dime for blogging.

It's the reason I used to say blogging was the journalistic equivalent of running a lemonade stand. Then it dawned on me that even 8 year olds who run lemonade stands have the good sense to at least charge a quarter for lemonade.

I heard from one friend the other day and he began complaining that I'm posting too late in the day to suit him.

"You make a big deal about being at your office at 6 a.m. to write the thing and how it only takes you an hour or two to write it, but then it doesn't post until 2 p.m. What the hell?"

He's correct. It is my custom to crawl out of bed and be here at the office before many roosters rise.

I do this because I think I write best when my mind's good and cloudy. If, say, I started at 10 a.m., my mind would be functioning logically and I'd realize what a folly it is to devote so much time to writing for free.

Reader tip: I think it helps if you're foggy-minded when you read it, too. A clear, sharp mind is a brute impediment to enjoying so much of life's wonder and whimsy.

Many mornings I'll have a good head of steam up and will have to shut it all down and go drive Josie to school. And I love doing that because it gives me the opportunity to incrementally brainwash her with music she won't hear anywhere else.

So some mornings I get the blog done and ready to go at about 10.

I'd post it right then and there, if only I had wifi access. I do not.

So I go for a walk. Then I go to the Giant Eagle and get a salad and maybe some soup or lunchmeat for a sandwich.

That puts me home at about 11:30. I often file then, but if there are some compelling lunatics competing for that day's Showcase Showdown on "The Price is Right" I'll watch. Then Val and I will have lunch and watch something.

So now a blog that's been done for nearly four hours is still not filed.

During all this distraction, it's never once occurred to me that there are gainfully employed people out there staring forlornly at their computer screen and refreshing it over and over waiting for a something new to appear.

It's very odd.

It's not like I'm issuing gangbuster stock tips.

But it's becoming clear some readers are at 11:50 impatiently staring at some two-day old post and thinking, "That Rodell bastard is probably right now watching Amber reveal some Showcase to Tahiti and shouting, '$22,500! $22,500!' like Ben from Modesta can hear him through the TV. And here I sit waiting to read if he'll today share his thoughts on the human nose being capable of differentiating between one trillion different scents. Jerk."

If you do feel that way, here are some suggestions: Go read some of the older posts. There are more than 1,000 of them. Or diminish the anxiety by calling some old friends and telling them you missed them and had time to kill because the blog you look forward to may be experiencing either technical difficulties or is communing with Drew Carey.

Or maybe you'd better think about calling a competent psychiatrist.

You can tell him or her about the blog, too!

Me, I'll be spending another day calling on tech gurus and hoping to figure out what's wrong with my 2009 MacBook Pro. 

I wrote this on my wife's generic and it gave me fits, which I'll use an excuse for why this post lacks some of usual tightness to which I aspire.

Either way, come Monday or Tuesday we'll have that hole patched and we'll get back to paddling on this endless voyage to nowhere.

It's great knowing so many of you are along for the ride.

Related . . .

Tech troubles plaguing lauded blog . . . this one!

Mom struggles with new remote

Thirsting for bar conversation

Do you know that forlorn feeling that comes along when one good friend goes away? Now imagine what it’s like when two dozen of them vamoose all at once.

That’s what it’s like the week after July 4 here in Latrobe when The Pond for one week goes dry.

Understand, The Pond going dry has nothing to do with the consequences of global warming. In fact, the impact centers more on individual thirsting.

The Pond is a friendly local tavern that’s miles from the nearest discernible body of standing water. I’ve probably been told a dozen or so times about why a landlocked bar is called The Pond, but the story isn’t nearly as interesting as what goes on in the bar beneath where I work.

I moved my office into a vacant apartment above The Pond in 2007 when trying to concentrate in close proximity to two precocious girls at home proved impossible for a guy like me.

So now I try and concentrate in close proximity to about twenty mostly paunchy and mostly male beer guzzlers.

I still can’t concentrate and that’s a pretty disparate sampling.

I must just be a social person. It’s bad for constructive productivity, but it’s good for having fun.

The office overlooks the rear parking lot where I park my vehicle. On days when the girls come over for lunch, we often scramble to the window whenever we hear a car rattle the gravel.

Tucked safely out of view, we wait until the driver closes the door and deploys his or her -- click! click! -- remote door lock. That’s when I press the button for my car alarm.

This sometimes confuses the driver into thinking he or she has mistakenly hit the wrong button. In a panicky effort to silence my alarm, they’ll sometimes press their own setting off a startling cacophony that helps screen our concealed cackles from behind the drapes.

Of course, the best part about working just above a friendly a bar is that it’s just so handy in case of emergency.

I’ve re-defined “emergency” to include real or perceived writer’s block, the need for inspiration, the sight of more than three cars belonging to my buddies parked outside at the same time, the onset of Happy Hour, the hunger for a tasty pizza, and the understanding that if I don’t get down there for lunch at precisely 11:47 a.m., then I’ll be too late to make a hypothetical bid on the Showcase Showdown.

Mostly my emergencies stem from the lack of giggles that come from working all by yourself.

The Pond is the perfect antidote for that. It has a great mix of characters. There are lawyers, farmers, mill workers, newspaper men, electricians, engineers, teachers and a happy assortment of common small town drunks. There’s chalkboard trivia, good food and friendly bartenders.

From years of old school boozy experience, I understand it takes a special sort of alchemy to mix it all together and make it all work so everyone feels welcome.

This bar has been run for three generations of the Carfang family. Dave runs the place now. Here’s a joke he told me the other day.

Mahatma Gandi’s feet became very tough from walking around without shoes.

His vegetarian diet left him with a very dainty sort of constitution.

He was a philosophical seer of future events.

He ignored common dental practices and that gave his breath an offensive air.

He was (say it fast) a super-calloused, fragile mystic, hexed by halitosis.

How many taverns feature that kind of humor? And how will I cope without that sort of thing for the next week or so?

I know what I’m going to do. I’m taking the family and we’re leaving town. We’re heading on a trip to Washington, D.C., to see the sights.

I want to be clear on this: I didn’t plan a family trip just because I wouldn’t have the company of my good bar buddies until July 13. This is purely a coincidence.

It won’t be deliberate until next year.

Non-worker takes daughter to work

I was reminded again last week how even the best of intentions can become corrupted by individual realties. There’s “Take Your Daughter To Work Day,” for instance.

I’m sure when organizers came up with this noble idea, they envisioned bright, fresh-faced girls heading to some corporate office so they could spend a day watching their mommies and daddies conducting productive meetings in organizational settings where everyone’s bright, shiny and can daily demonstrate they’re contributing to society’s overall good.

In fact, those are probably the exact sorts of jobs the very organizers had the day they dreamed up with the idea in first place, the uppity showoffs.

Guaranteed, the guys who haul my trash didn’t think it up. Nice guys doing a job you can argue is more necessary than most, but it’s doubtful they’re ever hanging off the back of the stinking truck thinking, “Oh, how I wish my daughter could see how I heaved that last bin of trash! I wish she could have seen me frisbee the lid over into yonder bushes!”

Same goes for folks working in slaughterhouses, sewage plants and other pivotal, but unheralded jobs.

And the same goes for me.

It’s not that I’m ashamed of what I do for a living. Far from it. It’s just that I set a terrible example for anyone who’s been taught we all need to be ambitious and work hard to get anywhere in life.

With me, it’s been just the opposite, and that wasn’t the lesson I wanted to impart to our 7-year-old daughter, Josie, when circumstances meant she could either spend the day with the sitter or tagging along with how I spend a normal day.

“I promise I won’t bother you, Daddy! Please, please, I’ll let you work!”

With those words, she proved she’s mastered one requirement in any number of demanding fields. She’s a really fine liar.

During the one usually productive segment of my at-home morning -- writing this no-pay blog -- she pestered and distracted me without end. She asked if she could play on mommy’s computer (no), if I’d play “Battleship” (no), if she could watch TV (no), and if I’d come with her to the woods to poke a really big spider with a stick (yes).

I’d planned on devoting that day at the office to re-working a story on the upcoming 9/11 commemorations of Flight 93 at nearby Shanksville, Pennsylvania. Instead, I imparted her with another lesson likely to doom her from future career advancement:

When faced with distractions and obstacles, don’t try and overcome them. Just give up.

That’s what I did. I took her for a long sunshine walk along the nearby train tracks. That finished off the morning and meant it was time for one of my favorite parts of the day.

The Price is Right!

If the day’s going smoothly, I can usually time the instant my rear end hits the bar stool with Rich Fields’ announcement that -- DA! da! Da! DAAAA! -- it’s time for the Showcase Showdown! I have great memories of my old man taking me into bars with him for lunch so I thought she should see where I eat most lunches when I’m not home watching TPIR with the family.

I don’t think she ever realized the show was such a spectator sport. One of my buddies was screaming at the set when some lame brain bid $21,000 on a camper combo worth, he said, at least twice that much: “You shouldn’t be allowed on the show if you’ve never bothered to watch it!” he screamed (he was right on the money, too. It was $42,150).

It was fun for me to look into her little brown eyes and see the dawning awareness that much older men were just as childish as her little boyfriends who were about to enter second grade.

The part, I’m sure, she’ll remember most vividly was what we did after lunch. It’s something I’ve been doing on and off for the better part of the 18 months I’ve worked in the tiny apartment overlooking the bar’s rear parking lot.

We stood behind the curtains waiting for cars to park or depart. The instant the drivers closed their car doors, I’d remotely deploy my car horn alarm with my own key set, instigating panic and confusion among the drivers and their parties.

Twice we had befuddled drivers set off their own horns in vain efforts to silence mine. Together, we roared at the chaos.

So that was my impromptu take-my-daughter-to-work day.

To sum up, I produced something inconsequential that’ll be quickly forgotten. I romped about in the sunshine. Played a few jokes. Laughed with a loved one. Didn’t earn a dime.

Come to think of it, that about sums up my entire career, too.