My friend's new book cures hangovers!

(884 words)

The greatest tribute anyone’s ever said about me is that just by telling my stories I once cured their hangover.

I mean, if you believe Scripture, that’s something even Jesus never did.

It was 2015 and I was the breakfast keynote speaker for the Pennsylvania Restaurant and Lodging Association. I was there to give my “Use All The Crayons!” talk.

I’ll let my Lazarus tell it (I to this day use this quote for promotional purposes):

“My restaurant hosted a lavish wine dinner the night before Chris’s keynote. Everyone there felt like dying. I didn’t even want to go. The topic sounded so stupid. Man, I’m so glad I did. Chris was so warm, so funny and so engaging he had me feeling better right away. It was a tough crowd, but he had us all feeling happy to be human. I swear, Chris cured my hangover!”

This man owns one of the finest and most established restaurants in Pittsburgh. And to show his gratitude, he invited me to a lavish dinner which I accepted without even a pause for prissy ethical considerations. 

“And bring your wife!”

So my favorite part of this sumptuously memorable evening was watching Val’s bewildered reaction to this prominent man’s gushing on and on and on about me. She suspected it was all an elaborate put on.

I love her very much, but she’s the inspiration for the line: “Any man who thinks he’s his own worst critic is either delusional or single.”

I mention all this today because I’m in the middle of a terrific book by Shaughnessy Bishop-Stall. It’s “Hungover: The Morning After & One Man’s Quest for the Cure.”

His book is off to a roaring start and has the potential to become historic. I mean, even Jesus only raised one from the dead.

I’m a sucker for compelling quest books, stories of men and women striding confidently around the globe in search of fame, riches or adventure. That Shaughnessy conducts his in a mostly inebriated stumble only makes it more endearing. 

It’s already the No. 1 bestseller in the Amazon substance abuse category, an indication to me that those who are categorizing books for amazon could use a belt or two. Because this is a substance appreciation book.

He consulted doctors. He consulted bartenders. He consulted the world’s foremost experts on what it’s like to be hungover.

He consulted me!

Shaughnessy and I became friends in ’13 when we met on an “Extreme Vegas” press junket of five of America’s premiere freelance writers and me.

See what I did there? That’s an example of me being self-deprecating, a trait I learned Shaughnessy appreciates.

I liked him immediately because I could tell he was fashioning a dandy book idea and was grounded enough to avoid it turning him into a colossal prick. And I admire anyone who can mange being grounded while simultaneously being high, as he is apt to be.

He mentions me on page 20 in a passage about how we were set to embark on an afternoon of Ferrari racing across the desert. Now, I ask you to brace yourself because parts of this will be disorienting to anyone who knows me even vaguely.

“‘You ever done this before?’ asks the writer (me) from Iowa—an old-school, avuncular journalist who’s self-published a finely crafted, nicely jokey self-help book available through his website on a pay-what-you-can basis. It’s called ‘Use All The Crayons!’ and has sold more copies than anything the rest of us have authored combined. He is as self-deprecating and inspiring as the New York travel writer is not.”

I’ve never been to Iowa, but now I’m wondering if I should move there to seize any potential promotional opportunities arising from the confusion.

Iowa? He knows I’m from Pennsylvania. Maybe he wanted to convey someone who’d appear more rube-like than us Keystone State sophisticates. Maybe he was up against a deadline and Iowa takes less time to spell than Pennsylvania.

If I could change one thing it would be using the word “avuncular,” meaning of or resembling an uncle. I’d opt, instead, for words like masculine, studly or buff — you know, words I use to describe myself during my near-hourly mirror pep talks.

Otherwise, I’m perfectly charmed. I think it’s wonderful.

Plus, in the acknowledgements page where he mentions, I think, about 1,000 people who’ve rendered him assistance, he lists me fifth. I’ve chosen to think the list was compiled in order of importance and can only hope it’s not in order of most avuncular. 

But I couldn’t be happier for my friend. His book in just the last week has earned praise in the Wall St. Journal, The Washington Post and The New York Times. And he’s just getting started.

He’s a great guy who’s written a great book. A single father of a young son, I admire him for having achieved a proper balance between being responsible and being reckless and making it seem destined for grand and deserving success. And all it took was 10 years of devoted drinking.

And to think I squandered the equivalent time way out here in Iowa tending this godforsaken blog.

No wonder a guy like me earns mention in a book titled “Hungover.”

Related …

Vegas: Hungover w/ Shaughnessy in ‘13

Vegas: Dream racing my 5-minute Ferrari

Vegas: Enjoying a good long jump with a Playboy Playmate

Vegas: Sore from soaring in stunt planes

I'm drinking too much & it's all your fault!

(651 words)

First of all, this is NOT about Judge Kavanaugh or his drinking. The only experiences we share are that he admits he got drunk on beer and blacked out and so did I.

The difference is he meant in high school.

 I mean most every Wednesday through Friday since high school.

Many prudent drinkers downplay how much alcohol they’ve consumed.

Me, I tend to romanticize it. A friendly saloon has been my native habitat since my old man took me into Frankie Gustine’s Bar in Oakland back in the ‘70s. Dad moonlighted there as a bartender. I remember walking through those swinging doors and falling in love with the atmosphere, the boisterous characters and the promise I was in a place alive with randy opportunity.

“Dad,” I said, “I’d like change for the jukebox, an ashtray for my smokes and a double Jack Daniels on the rocks — no straw. Buy that pretty little redhead by the window a Sloe Gin Fizz and tell her it’s on me. And don’t wait up for me, old man. I plan on going home with her.”

I was in the 4th grade.

I think that kind of behavior is what people expect out of writers, especially writers whose offices just happen to be located in historic buildings with three distinct and winning bars on three different floors. 

People seem to be disappointed if writers don’t tipple — and I wouldn’t want to disappoint them. 

Blame Papa.

Ernest Hemingway was a larger-than-life and now stereotypical writer/drunk. When people learn my office is above the Tin Lizzy, they often say, “Oh, so, you’re just like Hemingway!”

“That’s right,” I say, “we’re practically indistinguishable. The main difference is he’s the one with all the money, all the prestige, all the success, all the acclaim and all the six-toed cats.”

The 40- to 50-so-called polydactyl cats are the in-bred descendants of white cat named Snow White who was a gift from a wandering sea captain. They’re a highlight of any visit to the Hemingway House in Key West.

Given all those signs of tangible success, I wonder if Hemingway ever wondered if he drank too much.

Lately, I do. I sometimes ask myself if I drink too much. I usually say no. I do this out loud and using two different voices like I'm on stage.

Is such playacting a sign I drink too much?

Either way, I think lately the answer is yes. I am drinking too much.

And you’re to blame.

It’s true. For the first time ever, friendly strangers are eager to come to meet me and hear my stories. And none of them ever say, hey, let’s meet at the barber shop. 

No, they say let’s meet at the Tin Lizzy!

And they’re convivial folk. They want to have a drink and — God bless ‘em — they want to buy me one, too.

On top of all that there’s been an influx of well-wishers who are concerned about my health. Their altruistic intentions don’t make them any less thirsty.

I tell them I feel uncommonly melancholy from a dawning awareness that the number of quality days I have may be fewer than I once anticipated (I hate to break it to you, but the same may be true for you. You just never know).

And today, I’m loathe to walk away from any room where people are either laughing or saying nice things about me.

So, yes, I’m drinking more than I should for reasons I believe most people will appreciate.

In fact, despite my diagnosis, it’s a happy time, one of the best in my what I for a lack of a better word will call my “career.”

I have a little money, a little acclaim, a little prestige and — best of all — a whole lot of friends.

Now if I can only get my hands on a herd of six-toed cats I’ll be all set.

Related …

My history of drinking at or near work

Drunk on the job

No. 1 Party Boy from the No. 1 Party School

Willie Nelson for “High” court

My new Tin Lizzy office! (from '15)

(1096 words)

The critical criteria for selecting a new office space were two: Would it allow opportunities for fun? And would it be a good place to fend off the marauding zombie hordes?

Because you just never know.

So my office search loosely paralleled the plot from the uproarious 2004 zombie Brit flick, “Shaun of the Dead.”

See, I’m not at all like the fancy writers, and by fancy writers I mean ones who earn their livings getting paid to write.

No, all I need is a quiet place I can make loud.

I don’t want interruptions or chat mates. I just need a small, still room for me, my laptop and my Bose wave radio. Then I just sit down, plug in and crank up (right now it’s alt-country/blues/rocker/folkie/geriatric hellraiser Ray Wylie Hubbard).

Loud music for me seems to vacuum away all the mind clutter that gets in the way of necessary thoughtfulness. I don’t know why that is so and I just hope my daughters don’t inherit the trait or else I’ll soon know the lyrics to all the songs by the band One Direction.

Because of past happy experience, I confined my search to places that served hootch.

Who knows? Maybe I’d write better if my office were above (or below) a place of worship.

But I know if someone religious-minded wandered by and heard me playing Ray Wylie Hubbard’s blasphemous “Conversation with the Devil” it might lead to a long, philosophical discourse that would sidetrack me from writing about important blog topics like how sad I feel when my socks don’t match.

And who the hell needs that?

So after about two days of exhaustive research, one of which I did while hungover, I found two places that fill those needs.

The first is Little Rock, maybe the world’s greatest bar. It has great live music, eccentric clientele, chummy bartenders and is owned by my old college roommate Quinn Fallon, who’s endeared himself to me by never once having charged me for a single libation.

But Little Rock — so named because Quinn believes every bar needs a “little rock” — had two logistical drawbacks.

One, it has no second floor. I didn’t ask, but I’m sure Quinn would have let me put a card table and a lawn chair up on the roof. I might have become a local tourist attraction.

But without walls, I might one day blunder right off the roof and OSHA would have its first case of a writer being hurt while in the act of writing.

Second, Little Rock is in Columbus, Ohio.

If I could pull it off, I’d gladly make the 3 1/2-hour drive to Columbus, spend an hour blogging, an hour drinking with Quinn and then heading home — really, being gone 9 hours a day is a typical existence.

But I’d miss daily watching “The Price is Right” and let’s be honest: I haven’t been able to confine my convivial drinking to one-hour-a-day since the 4th grade.

That left one obvious choice.

Hello Tin Lizzy!

My commute has been cut in half. I’m now just 1.2 miles from home.

My wife said I could walk.

“Hell,” I said, “I’m gonna zip line!”

Won’t that be cool? The historic Tin Lizzy is Youngstown’s landmark building.

Youngstown, remember, is the one-stoplight town just outside of Latrobe. Before moving up the mountain, Val and I lived just 1/4 mile from the Tin Lizzy from 1992 through 2007. It’s a great town and, in fact, is the birthplace of both Fred Rogers and Arnold Palmer.

Locals know Latrobe Country Club isn’t in Latrobe. Neither is Palmer. They’re both in Youngstown.

For seven wonderful years, my office was above a really great bar.

Now, it’s above three of them.

The basement is the Rathskeller (live music); the ground floor, a perfectly cool townie bar; the second floor is Flappers, a 1940s-themed martini bar. 

I’m now the entire third floor.

To enter I need to pass through four locked doors. I like Maxwell Smart from the iconic “Get Smart” opening sequence.

It’s 79 steps to the third floor and I have it all to myself.

There are 11 rooms, but not 11 doors. It’s perfectly maze-like. I can get my daily exercise without ever having to leave the building.

There’s no shower, but the restroom gives the discerning urinator the choice of either bowl or wall-mounted receptacle.

I’m weighing an even/odd calendar routine.

Most of the rooms are like being in a bar’s attic. There’s old chairs, tables, paints, work space. One room has all the Christmas decorations so I can commune with Claus anytime I need a jolt of holiday spirit.

The actual office is one slim room overlooking Main Street. It’s a great view. 

The floors are badly warped so writing while seated on my wheeled chair is like writing on the pitching deck of a ship.

I was very pleased when my friend, Buck, offered me the space. He’s been running the building for, I think, 25 years. He’s gone way out of his way to make me feel welcome, as have his staff.

I got an unexpected call at 7:30 this morning. It was Sandy offering me coffee.

How sweet.

I screamed at her to not bother me again until she’d prepared a three egg-white, all organic Western omelette with Bavarian goat cheese was ready.

She hasn’t called back. She’s either insulted or is having a difficult time securing a Bavarian goat.

The most awkward aspect of moving has been answering so many questions about where I’m going to get drunk.

While I (mostly) exaggerate my drinking for blog purposes, people are concerned I’ll abandon The Pond.

It’s a tough call. I don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings. All my buddies are at The Pond and I have loyalties there, but The Pond did evict me and I should convey some loyalty to the people who are welcoming me in.

I endure long stretches where my writing is roundly ignored, but I’m never lacking for interest in people who want me as a drinking buddy.

I feel like a highly touted college QB prospect being fought over by competing NFL teams.

Not a draft pick.

A draft beer pick!

I guess there’s only one thing to do that won’t hurt anyone’s feelings among all the people who’ve been so nice to me.

Columbus, here I come!

It reeks of pretentiousness, but the reaction is convincing me what every bar really needs is a little Rodell.

Related . . .

Germanwings & The art of living suddenly

Excessive traffic lights drive man to drink

My history of drinking at or near work

Drunk on the job

“Office” Christmas party recap

I am being evicted from The Pond

Farewell Pond! I am outta here

Regular bar patrons need personal seat licenses

(1,020 words)

I’m hoping today’s Happy Hour will go better than last Friday’s and it will if Dave implements an idea I’ve been hounding him over for months.

Yes, it’s time for The Pond to issue personal seat licenses so regulars can be assured of our favorite stools.

I don’t bar hop. Never have.

I find a place I like with lively people whose company I enjoy and settle in for laughter, conversation and all sorts of sudsy poignancy until they throw me out.

And they never throw me out.

They may turn the music up so they don’t have to hear me talk so much, but they never throw me out.

My life has been enlivened with great drinking buddies, guys who, like me, enjoy a convivial stretch in a warm tavern with a friendly bartender.

It’s been that way ever since I was 12.

I remember many times in college in Athens, Ohio, when me and one of my drinking buddies were in a bar from 1 o’clock to 2 o’clock -- and I’m not talking one hour.

One particular time it was a Sunday and we were deathly hungover from the typical Saturday raucousness. 

I remember the next day some friends couldn’t believe we’d persevered under our conditions when fellow sufferers wasted an entire day in bed with blankets pulled up over their heads.

One asked later if it was a challenge to our constitutions.

“Well, the first eight hours were a little difficult,” George said.

Fast forward to about 1992. I was working at a small two-person newspaper office that was strategically located right next door to a really great bar. My co-worker was also my drinking buddy, bookie and fellow Pirate season ticket holder.

He was like the Swiss Army Knife of drinking buddies.

We’d become friendly with some other guys who’d visit the bar to watch the games with us.

During one of the commercials, one of them asked if Paul and I ever went anywhere else.

Paul pointed about four stools away and said, “Sometimes we sit over there.”

So you understand my history. I’m a creature of habit when it comes to my drinking establishments.

That’s why Fridays at The Pond have become such a challenge. I fear the place is becoming too popular. 

Dave, the third generation owner, feels this, too. In that way, he’s becoming like his old man, Dick, one of the sweetest and most kind men I’ve ever known.

Dave tells the story from about 15 years ago when he wanted to introduce his Dad -- his co-worker -- to some fresh faced young patrons who’d found the bar and felt right at home.

His Dad cringed in dismay and said, “Oh, please, I can’t take another generation!”

Now Dave and I are alarmed about the encroach of yet another generation. It’s ruining the Friday Happy Hour. I’ll let Dave tell it.

“Around 5 p.m., I look around and everything’s great. All my guys are right here where they all belong and I think it’s going to be all right. Then at 6 o’clock it starts. All these strangers start coming in and I begin to realize what Dad meant.”

I wish I could do something to help my friend. Maybe me and the rest of the regulars could consume so much alcohol he wouldn’t need any other customers, but that would likely lead to encounters with DUI checkpoints and angry spouses and pretty soon we’d be doing all our drinking home alone with electronic monitoring devices strapped to our ankles.

It helps if you consider The Pond like it’s a more rectangular version of the Monopoly board and instead of tokens like silver shoes, jalopies, thimbles and choo-choos, the board is populated by paunchy middle aged white dudes with beer farts and receding hairlines.

Boardwalk and Park Place are right there as soon as you get in the door. Those seven or eight stools are where the regulars sit. No one sits directly opposite near Baltic because you’re usually all alone and it’s like staring down a really ugly firing squad. 

So last Friday I walked in around 4:30 expecting one of the prime seats to be available only to be startled to see a nice young couple inhabiting Park Place.

It threw everything off. Gary and Chud were at St. James Place, Chuck was parked at Atlantic, and Teacher Dave was at Marvin Gardens. Worst of all the Joes were scattered to all four corners.

One of things I love about The Pond is there are eight Regulars Joes and all them are conveniently named Joe. Sit next to any Joe and you’re in good company.

Me? I felt like I was in jail with a Do Not Pass Go card for a beer coaster.

So this nice young couple out for a good meal and some chat at a friendly tavern had ruined the night for everyone else.

The nerve.

I ended up going home sober and crashing my family’s girly movie night, so the couple’s inconsideration had a ripple effect far beyond The Pond, and that just never happens with the hootch-free ponds found in nature.

“Don’t blame me,” I said, explaining what happened. My wife shook her head in routine exasperation, but my elementary-age kids understood instinctively.

You don’t take another kid’s seat.

Personal seat licenses would prevent this from happening again.

If lieu of that, I’m going to recommend Dave put up a “Please Wait to Be Seated” sign so he could steer people to where they belong.

I’ve seen him excel in this role. I remember one time when two young rowdies were misbehaving over around Ventnor Avenue. They weren’t bad guys. They just needed a little seasoning.

They did know enough to realize their behavior was out of place. One of them asked Dave if he’d recommend a place where the two loud friends could sit and not bother his regular customers.

Dave’s answer was brilliant.

“Racers.”

Racers isn’t some obscure Monopoly property.

Racers is the bar about a quarter mile down the street.

Related . . .

Weddings, friendship & a pooka named Paul

When Facebook becomes Fakebook

“I love you, men!”