Juvenile candor starting to pay off

(754 words)

It’s taken me about 50 years, but my bracing brand of juvenile candor is finally beginning to resonate with responsible adults.

I know this because this week I had successful outcomes at three potentially stressful meetings involving accountants, bankers and school officials.

I think a part of it is because I’m no longer even tempted to respond to difficult questions with bedrock lies like, “I didn’t do it,” “It’s not my fault,” “And, no, I’m not Chris Rodell. I’m Tris Rodell.”

Now, I just blurt out whatever the hell I think is at that very moment my version of the truth.

It’s how I got into an argument with my accountant about why my new pillow should count as a legitimate business deduction. My taxes looked to her like so much baroque art — vibrant, grand, but lacking elemental focus — she had us apply for an extension.

“You can’t as a business expense deduct a pillow!”

If I wrote about the pillow, and I did, then it is indeed a business expense. And I may one day write a book about the the history of pillows. So it’s research.

“Okay, but I’m not letting you deduct mileage for driving your kids to their swim meets. There’s no way anyone would consider that a business expense.”

Clearly, she’d been too busy tallying doctored receipts to read my blog. 

I’ve written many angry screeds about how much I despise attending my daughters’ swim meets. 

“In fact,” I said, “I might call my very next book, ‘What I Hate about Swim Meets & How a Really Good Pillow Helps Get Me Through ‘em.’”

Brace yourself, Uncle Sam. She eventually agreed.

It was the same way with the school official who I misheard when she asked if I’d ever abused boys.

“Oh, sure,” I admitted. “I used to do it all the time. Never alone. That’s no fun. It was always with a bunch of giggle buddies.”

My answer left her aghast. She asked where I’d done it.

“Usually, right there on my bar stool, but sometimes on a golf course or at a Pirate game. Really, I’d do it any place I thought I could get away with it. It goes back to Ohio University where that kind of abuse was a big part of college life.”

Her face grew pale and I sensed we were talking about different topics. Turns out I’d had misheard her.

I thought she’d asked if I’d ever abused booze.

I assured her I’d never abuse boys. Or girls. I adore and nurture children, even ones whose parents I know are either mean or moronic.

It’s that time of year when me and my worms are again summoned to the local elementary school to talk about recycling, and there was a question of whether I’d need a document proving I’d never been convicted of abuse.

After she’d resumed breathing, I told the woman she had it backwards. I shouldn’t need a document stating I wouldn’t abuse their 3rd graders.

She should present me a document stating 3rd graders wouldn’t abuse my worms.

It all got cleared up. Turns out procedural documents for wormy visits like mine are unnecessary.

It’s not that way at the bank. I’d gone there to apply for a home equity loan.

I think many blog readers believe my incessant whining about being broke — being “Eight Days To Amish” — is schtick. It is not.

My belief that better days are about to dawn is coinciding with some of the darkest realities of my entire career. 

I believe this indomitable spirit in the face of real adversity is one of my greatest attributes. I understand this while simultaneously recognizing that’s the very reason you should rejoice I’m not your spouse.

So why should the bank loan me money?

Due to youthful responsibility, diligence and some fondly remembered real income, Val and I do own our home. That’s a considerable asset. 

And the lucrative success I’ve had at speaking engagements over the past year isn’t a fluke.

It’s just a beginning.

But I think the reason approval is pending is because I blurted out a line that’s probably never been uttered in any bank office where a near-destitute applicant was seeking a loan.

Why should they loan me money?

“Because I simply can’t believe it’s all part of God’s plan for me to be broke forever.”

The loan officer smiled and she began to nod.

He may not have much money but, man, the kid’s got balls.

It’s just how I roll.

Related . . .

Pillow shopping for Ol’ Crusty

Pillow talk about new iPhones

5-hour swim meets too long, driving me crazy

Swim meets and my history of hugging

Taking my worms to elementary school

Frank Burns eats worms

For Earth Day, a recycled post

Earth Day 2010 is shaping up to be exactly the same as Earth Days 2008 and 2009: I'm heading to my kid's school to talk to the students about my work as a worm farmer.

So to celebrate Earth Day, I'm posting the exact same thing I posted last year.

If you've already read it, I urge you to turn off your lights, go outside pick up some trash, recycle it, and revel in this great big beautiful world.



I’d planned on spending Earth Day scattering dense trash on pristine lands and in deep lakes where the environmental obscenities will likely linger for centuries.

Some future explorer would find them in some distant age. She may shake her head at my carelessness and exclaim, “Wow, someone with a really nasty slice used to roam these lands. We’re miles from the nearest golf course!”

It is my Earth Day custom to bang Titleists deep in the western Pennsylvania forests. I lose about four or five golf balls every single time I tee it up. I putt good, my iron play is strong, but I can’t hit a straight drive to save my life.

Most people don’t consider lost golf balls trash. I do. I can’t sleep the night before I golf knowing there’s nothing I can do to prevent defacing Mother Earth with my dimpled, non-biodegradable spheres.

Maybe I take things too seriously.

Like the saving the planet. I take it very seriously.

I aim to reduce, reuse and recycle everything. I vowed last year I would never step over another piece of trash. Now I carry a recyclable plastic bag with me on my walks and usually have enough cups, wrappers and papers to get about half a bag full.

I could accumulate more if I wobbled along in a drunken sort of weave into the bushes and gutters, but that would take too long and would reduce the happy time I spend in the bar developing a true drunken weave the old-fashioned way

Still, I know I could do more. I’ve read that the average American discards 28 pounds of trash each week into our bulging landfills. Our family is way below that, but not near the average household in Oslo, Norway, where they produce just four pounds of weekly trash.

Four pounds! What, is Oslo populated entirely by Keebler elves?

Still, even they are pikers compared to the world’s best recyclers. For every single pound of trash you and I produce, this trash-devouring little superhero is capable of recycling it into an equivalent amount of something useful and nutritious.

Behold, the red wiggler worm!

I did a story about the practice of vermiculture four years ago and immediately became enthralled with the ambi-sexterous red wiggler worms. The tiny slimies simply fascinate. It takes a trained eye and, I’d guess, an atomic level microscope, but every worm is a hermaphrodite generously bestowed with organs of both sexes.

The condition is not enough to make me want to tune in to worm porn night on the Animal Planet, but I’ll never again look at another worm and believe it must endure a boring or lonely existence.

As it was explained to me, “These worms simply live to eat and reproduce. Basically, the worm is just a mouth, anus and a microscopic little brain.”

I asked, given these base characteristics, how do red wiggler worms differ from the typical radio talk show host.

“Well, the worm actually contributes some good to society. About 45 percent of all our waste stream comes from food and paper products, both of which are compostable materials. Worms can convert these common waste products into nutrient-rich soil fertilizer to energize your gardens.”

I was sold. I got a little bin, a softball sized ball of 1,000 little wigglers and soon our family started putting apple cores, banana peels, lettuce scraps, tea bags, potato peels, etc. into the bin along with showers of shredded newspapers. The warm worm poo makes great fertilizer.

So now when strangers ask what I do for a living, I always answer “I’m a worm farmer.”

And it’s true. Sure, I do a lot of writing, but there’s rarely even a penny of commerce involved in the exercise. I used to say blogging was the journalistic equivalent of running a lemonade stand until I realized that even 8 year olds know enough to charge a quarter for a glass of lemonade.

Worm farming is a productive pursuit that reduces vile pollution. Some critics would argue blogging is the exact opposite.

So instead of golfing on this Earth Day, I’m putting on my worm farmer bib overalls and am heading to Baggeley Elementary School to teach my daughter’s second grade class about the joys of vermiculture or worm farming.

I’ve done it the past couple of years and it’s always a joy to see the kids fussing over the bin full of worms as they frolick amidst all the rich worm poo.

But it’s not all fun and games. I don’t let the kids get too out of hand.

It might upset the worms.

And, take my word for it, no one wants to see a hermaphroditic red wiggler get all excited in front of a classroom full of second graders.

Saving the world with global worming

I’d planned on spending Earth Day scattering dense trash on pristine lands and in deep lakes where the environmental obscenities will likely linger for centuries.

Some future explorer would find them in some distant age. She may shake her head at my carelessness and exclaim, “Wow, someone with a really nasty slice used to roam these lands. We’re miles from the nearest golf course!”

It is my Earth Day custom to bang Titleists deep in the western Pennsylvania forests. I lose about four or five golf balls every single time I tee it up. I putt good, my iron play is strong, but I can’t hit a straight drive to save my life.

Most people don’t consider lost golf balls trash. I do. I can’t sleep the night before I golf knowing there’s nothing I can do to prevent defacing Mother Earth with my dimpled, non-biodegradable spheres.

Maybe I take things too seriously.

Like the saving the planet. I take it very seriously.

I aim to reduce, reuse and recycle everything. I vowed last year I would never step over another piece of trash. Now I carry a recyclable plastic bag with me on my walks and usually have enough cups, wrappers and papers to get about half a bag full.

I could accumulate more if I wobbled along in a drunken sort of weave into the bushes and gutters, but that would take too long and would reduce the happy time I spend in the bar developing a true drunken weave the old-fashioned way

Still, I know I could do more. I’ve read that the average American discards 28 pounds of trash each week into our bulging landfills. Our family is way below that, but not near the average household in Oslo, Norway, where they produce just four pounds of weekly trash.

Four pounds! What, is Oslo populated entirely by Keebler elves?

Still, even they are pikers compared to the world’s best recyclers. For every single pound of trash you and I produce, this trash-devouring little superhero is capable of recycling it into an equivalent amount of something useful and nutritious.

Behold, the red wiggler worm!

I did a story about the practice of vermiculture four years ago and immediately became enthralled with the ambi-sexterous red wiggler worms. The tiny slimies simply fascinate. It takes a trained eye and, I’d guess, an atomic level microscope, but every worm is a hermaphrodite generously bestowed with organs of both sexes.

The condition is not enough to make me want to tune in to worm porn night on the Animal Planet, but I’ll never again look at another worm and believe it must endure a boring or lonely existence.

As it was explained to me, “These worms simply live to eat and reproduce. Basically, the worm is just a mouth, anus and a microscopic little brain.”

I asked, given these base characteristics, how do red wiggler worms differ from the typical radio talk show host.

“Well, the worm actually contributes some good to society. About 45 percent of all our waste stream comes from food and paper products, both of which are compostable materials. Worms can convert these common waste products into nutrient-rich soil fertilizer to energize your gardens.”

I was sold. I got a little bin, a softball sized ball of 1,000 little wigglers and soon our family started putting apple cores, banana peels, lettuce scraps, tea bags, potato peels, etc. into the bin along with showers of shredded newspapers. The warm worm poo makes great fertilizer.

So now when strangers ask what I do for a living, I always answer “I’m a worm farmer.”

And it’s true. Sure, I do a lot of writing, but there’s rarely even a penny of commerce involved in the exercise. I used to say blogging was the journalistic equivalent of running a lemonade stand until I realized that even 8 year olds know enough to charge a quarter for a glass of lemonade.

Worm farming is a productive pursuit that reduces vile pollution. Some critics would argue blogging is the exact opposite.

So instead of golfing on this Earth Day, I’m putting on my worm farmer bib overalls and am heading to Baggeley Elementary School to teach my daughter’s second grade class about the joys of vermiculture or worm farming.

I’ve done it the past couple of years and it’s always a joy to see the kids fussing over the bin full of worms as they frolick amidst all the rich worm poo.

But it’s not all fun and games. I don’t let the kids get too out of hand.

It might upset the worms.

And, take my word for it, no one wants to see a hermaphroditic red wiggler get all excited in front of a classroom full of second graders.