Augusta adds women & journalism lessons

News that Augusta National has finally admitted two female members has me wondering about the logistics.

Are Augusta-area contractors submitting bids to construct a two-stall women’s locker room?

And do you think there are any bookies stupid enough to let me tease a one-two perfecta on the outcome of the 2013 women’s club championship?

I think most Augusta members are happy to welcome female members and think it’s long overdue. That’s now one female member for every 150 males, so Sadie Hawkins Day at Augusta won’t be quite the bore it’s been.

Of course, there are certain to be fringe members -- and any club that has putting greens is bound to have “fringe” members -- who are furious. They believe in tradition and keeping things the way they were in the ‘50s.

The 1850s.

They don’t want female members, especially one who’s, and I’m struggling with just how to put this, you know -- a darkie!

Yeah, gimme that old time religion.

I expect in the next day or so one or two members will quietly quit in response to the admission of Darla Moore and Condoleezza Rice (Augusta admitted its first black member in 1990).

Where’s a white man who enjoys the mostly exclusive company of other white men to go? Besides my bar, I mean.

I guess the difference between bars like the one I frequent and Augusta National is that women have always been welcome. But most of them just decide on a near nightly basis to stay the hell away.

Another difference: Many Augusta National members own plants. Guys like me who go to bars like mine will once in a while water them.

It’s funny, too, because three hours before the Augusta news was announced I was enjoying a lively conversation with a famous Augusta National member. And take a moment, please, to notice how deftly I turned this historic story into an opportunity to name drop.

It was, of course, Arnold Palmer. I was at his office to interview him for Kingdom Magazine. Regular readers will recall Palmer was kind enough to write the endorsing foreword for my book.

Here’s just some of what he wrote: “‘Use All the Crayons!’ is an interesting and amusing trip through precisely 501 wide-ranging tips on life surrounding thirty-three short essays that are thoughtful and insightful.”

And from name dropping to a subtle sales pitch in just two slim paragraphs. Forget Augusta admitting female members. It’s an historic day for deftness!

I’ve become so comfortable interviewing Arnold Palmer that yesterday I nearly forgot the reason I was there was to interview Arnold Palmer. I was so enchanted by our introductory small talk I forgot to hit “record” on my iPhone voice recorder.

Oh, how I wish I had a journalism class to teach tonight! This would be a great lesson.

I’d spent an hour interviewing a famous and busy man and had no audio record of what he said. Worse, I rely so much on the infallibility of my iPhone I didn’t take any notes.

I discovered my error as I was departing and told Palmer’s long-time assistant, a friend, who’d sat in for the interview, which had gone splendidly. Lots of laughs, lots of insights -- stuff that would be impossible to duplicate in a hasty and embarrassing re-interview.

What, he asked, was I going to do?

Don’t worry, I said. I think I got it.

In fact, I knew I did. I was confident I could rely on a device even more incredible than a common smart phone. With the list of questions to cue my recollections, I wrote the interview up entirely from memory.

I sent it to Palmer’s assistant to verify my accuracy. He was amazed. Said it read like a transcript.

The human mind once again saving the human ass.

I called back later to see if we should add a comment about Augusta admitting females, but was told it could hold for a future interview.

I suspect I know what he’ll say about it. He’ll say he welcomes the new members and looks forward to golfing with them.

It’ll be cool if he’ll say, “I’m glad Augusta National is finally starting to ‘Use All the Crayons!’”

That would be something else I’d never forget.

Go (to) Cleveland! A Pittsburgher reconsiders

As a young Pittsburgh Steeler fan, I used to hate Cleveland. As an older Pittsburgh Steeler fan, I hate al-Qaeda and white men with grudges and guns.

I was thinking of this Friday afternoon sitting at an East 4th Street sidewalk cafe in the center of Cleveland, surrounded by Clevelanders and having a ball.

Cleveland isn’t a bucket-list destination for most Pittsburghers. In fact, it’s likely not a bucket-list destination for most Toledoans.

But I’m professional travel writer. And, please, try and stifle the snickers that are bound to erupt any time I couple myself with the word “professional.”

It’s true. I’ve written travel stories for many prestigious magazines and newspapers. Being a professional travel writer, let me tell you what it’s like.

First of all, it’s not what you think. It’s grueling. Long hours. The pay sucks. You are at the mercy of marketing and sales people who are determined to present their destination or resort in the most favorable light.

Why do it?

Free travel!

Being a credentialed travel writer is like being an esteemed member of the Olympic city selection committee minus all the free hookers. It’s the finest hotels, the most sumptuous meals and enough free booze to satisfy even veteran free booze hounds like myself. And that’s a lot.

Sure, there are some hookers, but those usually go to the guys who don’t golf.

I’ve been doing travel writing since a journalism ethics professor lectured that travel writers are offered more ethically questionable freebies than the guys who cover the local municipal authority meetings.

It was explained that hotels and resort p.r. folks need to have a steady stream of media reporting things about them so they will often tempt news people with freebies in exchange for stories.

I think the lesson was supposed to make us more circumspect, but it had the opposite effect with me. I remember leaving class that day and heading straight to a local print shop to have business cards emblazoned with “PALM FEATURES” across the top. I thought it sounded vaguely tropical and evocative for a travel writing venture.

In truth, I called it “PALM FEATURES” because my hand was always out and upright for freebies.

What’s funny about my travel writing is it has undergone the reverse trajectory of many journalists. They start out ethically pure and eventually succumb to cynicism and start gobbling up freebies with abandon.

Me, I started out with the most corrupt of intentions and now only take freebies when I can snag an assignment or when a place I’ve written about thinks it would be mutually beneficial for me to see more of their attractions.

That’s how I wound up in Cleveland for two days with my family.

In 2011, I was writing near weekly travel stories for msnbc.com. I did several that involved Cleveland, none of which involved actually going to Cleveland.

Each time local promoters would say, hey, come visit. You’ll really like Cleveland. Lots of great stories here.

It was very flattering. That’s why I was reluctant to share with them another way in which I differ from many travel writers.

I don’t much like excessive travel.

I’d often rather stay home.

But what kind of father and husband would I be if I didn’t share one of the few perks of having me as a “provider,” if I didn’t provide for my family the one thing at which I excel. Now, say it with me . . .

Free travel!

So we did the Rock ‘n’ Roll Hall of Fame, The Cleveland Botanical Gardens, the Cleveland Aquarium and enjoyed a slew of the city’s eateries, foremost being The Greenhouse Tavern, a destination restaurant worth any drive.

I’m glad I no longer feel a kneejerk need to expend so much negative emotion on a city and a people who, in many ways are like Pittsburgh, both gritty, under-appreciated and deserving of fresh looks from one to another.

We shouldn’t let a football rivalry dictate our emotions, especially when can we can gang up and focus our hate on Dallas.

So for the first time I can say without reservation I’m rooting for Cleveland. It’s a lot of fun and I wish the city well.

I’m saying that as a Pittsburgher and a professional travel writer.

Not because some hooker asked me to.

A blog about bloggin'

I’m considering it a sign of blog success that an increasing number of readers want to know about process: They want to know how I do it.

They used to know why I do it, if I ever thought I was wasting my time, and if I’d ever come to my senses.

I have now surpassed a threshold of readers who enjoy the blog that I feel I can’t stop.

The most obvious example is, of course, The Pond. My friends just love the blog. Sure, they’re mostly inebriates, but www.EightDaysToAmish.com would never dream of discriminating against drunks, whores or other non-violent felons who add so much color to our local news round-ups.

It welcomes all readers, regardless of moral stature.

As mentioned here, I’m now The Pond’s official Twitterist. The story mentions Dave, the computer-less owner, so I printed it out and handed it to him to read.

He did so right in front of me. The bar was packed.

He didn’t read it aloud, I’m relieved to say. He just roared with laughter. He created such a commotion I’m convinced he’d have thrown himself out if he was anyone else.

He just laughed and laughed. His laughter is so infectious the whole bar began to bubble. Everyone knew he was reading something I’d written.

So they were thinking nice thoughts of me because we all like Dave and enjoy seeing him happy.

But part of me was embarrassed. It was a lot of attention.

Happily, that part of me was microscopic compared to the gargantuan part of me that preens over flattering attention. I right away overcame my momentary shyness and asked Dave if he’d give me a free beer in exchange for the giggles.

And he did.

So it was the best day I’d had in the bar since 2007 Happy Hour I found that $20 under the men’s room sink.

In fact, it was a great day all around. Earlier that day, I’d been with some friends, a couple of whom read and enjoy the blog.

They were complimenting recent stories and one of them asked about process. He wanted to know where I get my ideas and how I write the posts.

“I try and go to bed with either a topical idea from the news or something interesting that’s been happening to me,” I said. “Then I wake up around 6 a.m. after the ideas’s been sort of marinating in my head all night. I drive to the office with a still foggy mind and it usually flows pretty easily.”

If I take a shower or even splash water on my face, the writing becomes torture. I think that’s because the water awakens the realization I should be doing something else that might lead to actual income instead of a free beer from Dave.

But if I’m half asleep my mind seems dreamy enough to write about 750 words in about 90 minutes.

My self-imposed deadline is 8:30 a.m. so I can go home and put the kids on the bus (school’s open in 10 days!).

Then I hastily proof and file the story.

This explains why the first versions have so many typos and careless errors. I wish I was more disciplined, but I prefer just firing the thing off. Then I’ll come home for lunch and proof the already-posted copy and find and correct three or four sloppy mistakes and re-post.

I’ll check back in on it maybe two or three more times that day and always find another error or two.

The result is the first version -- the one that’s most widely read -- invariably has the most mistakes. Then the last version -- the one that attracts just a few straggling readers -- is pristine.

I can’t help it. That’s the way it is and the way it’s going to stay and I appreciate your indulgence.

Then my friend asked me a question I’ve often asked myself: Why not write stories in advance and stockpile them?

Good question.

Maybe part of me still wonders if this internet thing’s a fad that’s going to go away. And what would happen if it did and I had about 10 great stories in the kitty destined to go forever unread?

Then there’s this: I’m a better writer today than I was yesterday, but not as good as I’ll be tomorrow. If you write enough, you improve. I really believe that.

But the main reason, I guess, is the same one why we all enjoy going to the farmer’s markets.

It’s gotta be fresh. I often slip in off-topic references that add a sparkle of timeliness to the tale.

This story about me turning 50 nine months before I turn 50 is a perfect example. With just a little tinkering, this could run anytime before February and no one would notice.

But I wrote it, was pleased with it, and wanted to get it online that instant. I thought it might make someone laugh who was in the midst of a real crapfest of a day.

Why would I withhold something like that from even one reader?

So there you go: www.EightDaysToAmish.com, guaranteed 100 percent fresh and organic.

And done today by 8:30 a.m., too!

You’ll just have to excuse, please, the all the sloppy tyypos.

Remembering Elvis, again

I remember clearly what I was doing 35 years ago today when my brother came racing up the driveway to tell me and Daryl Delrayo that Elvis Presley had died.

Eric delivered the news with the somber urgency befitting the earthshaking news.

I don’t remember my reaction as much as I remember Daryl’s. He said. “Who cares? He lived a long time and had a good life.”

Our old neighbor was only half right. Elvis was just 42.

I love Elvis and wish he’d lived the full measure. I’m sure he’d still fascinate. I still thrill to his music and what he meant to rock ‘n’ roll.

We got a kick out of hearing him mentioned during the moving “Freedom Rising” performance at the National Constitution Center in Philadelphia where he’s hailed as “the only King America will ever revere!”

So I thought this morning I’d re-run -- now for a record third time -- an Easter 2009 story about the week I ate like Elvis.

And I hope at some point today “Jailhouse Rock,” “The Devil in Disguise,” “U.S. Male” or one of your favorite Elvis songs gets stuck in your head.

You’ll be sure to have a great day.

What to make of his legacy? I'll leave that to others to discern.

But this much I know: Elvis Presley was one of our greatest Americans.

And Daryl Delrayo was one of the worst.

Ever since the week I ate like Elvis, I’ve always tried to promote Eats Like Elvis as the name for a punk band. I just don’t see how it could miss.

I’ve spent a good bit of time this week thinking of my culinary apocalypse after an unbeckoned e-mail from the Southern Food and Beverage Museum in New Orleans sailed into my computer. It read:

“Southern Fried Elvis, an exhibition of eight cookbooks that focus on the food eaten by the late King of Rock and Roll, opens to the public on Friday, April 24, 2009.

“Collection manager Chris Smith said: ‘Elvis was a classic Southern boy who liked all the hard-core foods – meat loaf, mashed potatoes, pork chops, fried chicken, white bread with gravy, cheeseburgers, the whole nine yards,” says Smith. “And then there were his legendary favorites, which included banana pudding and the infamous fried peanut butter and banana sandwiches.’

I hope if this kind of thing ever happens again, someone will have the insight to invite me to serve on a panel. I could detail my experiences from when I ate like Elvis.

Ah, yes, I remember it well. It was 1997 and I was watching an anniversary special commemorating the 20th anniversary of Presley’s death. I remember one woman saying she used to bring huge trays of food to the King’s Graceland bedroom where the big boy was chowing down.

“I remember melted butter dripping down his arms and just puddling up on the sheets,” said one woman, “and him saying, ‘Boy this pork chop is delicious. Bring me five more of these!’”

I remember thinking, “What would that kind of diet do to an otherwise healthy American male?” So I did what I was apt to do in those days. I dashed off a lead to National Enquirer proposing I spend one week eating like Elvis.

Being Enquirer editors confronted with anything involving tastelessness and Elvis, they did what Enquirer editors reflexively do: They offered me $1,000 and told to run to the grocery store.

And don’t mistake that as disparagement. The editors and reporters at National Enquirer are the finest storytellers and journalists I’ve ever had the pleasure with whom to work. They knew what readers wanted. Read or watch any publication or TV news show today and you’ll see their influence from the past 30 years.

The same goes for Elvis. Thanks to the all-Elvis channel on XM satellite radio, to this day I still enjoy Presley as much as the Rolling Stones, Tom Petty or any other top band on my playlists. I remember when John Lennon was asked about the influence of Frank Sinatra, he said, “Before Elvis there was nothing.” And how Bob Dylan said the first time he heard Elvis’s voice he knew he’d never have a boss. “Hearing Elvis for the first time was like busting out of jail,” says Dylan.

But none of that was on my mind when Val and I loaded $432.33 worth of high-caloric groceries into the trunk that hot summer day. We spent the next three hours preparing a feast fit for The King . My bible was Brenda A. Butler’s -- be sure to sing it -- “Are You Hungry Tonight?” cookbook of Elvis’s favorite meals.

There were cheeseburgers, bacon and eggs, pork chops, nanner pudding, and the classic fried peanut butter and nanner sandwiches. There was so much scrap food for that initial photo session the slobbering dog got truly fed up and went downstairs to hide behind the furnace. And with every meal, I always had a big glass of frosty milk, just like Elvis, because as Presley liked to say, “Milk makes ya sexy!”

I called my editor two days into the experiment and proudly reported I’d gained four pounds. He became apoplectic, which was a fairly constant condition for Enquirer editors. Guaranteed, he’d been apoplectic four minutes previous to my call and would re-enter an apoplectic state three minutes after setting down the phone from talking to me.

“Four lousy pounds! That’s not enough! You gotta eat more! You need to look huge! You gotta pack on 15 pounds so the pictures will show you looking like Elvis when he fell off the can! Eat! Eat! Eat!”

That 35 second call left me all shook up and turned my week into a dietary death march. I would wake up feeling bloated. I’d munch on donuts while I cooked the bacon and eggs. Then I’d consume the food, wash the dishes and repeat.

It was five days of that. Consume, wash, cook, eat, repeat.

In the end I’d gained 20 pounds, rented an Elvis jump suit from a local costume store and posed next to a pink Cadillac for the story about the week I ate like Elvis.

It took about two weeks to recover. The Enquirer ran the story over Thanksgiving (I tell you, they’re geniuses). The story was a minor sensation. I heard from morning radio giggle shows all over the country.

Much of my ambition to do anything great has since that week come from my understanding that if I die, the first line in my obituary will read something like, “Chris Rodell, who died Tuesday of (choose your mayhem), was a feature writer who once gained 20 pounds after he ate like Elvis for National Enquirer.”

It’s an ignoble legacy I hope to one day erase.

So that’s what I thought this week when I was inspired to write a story about one King on a weekend when many of us will be celebrating the resurrection of another one.

If you’ve taken a small portion of your weekend to read this far I want to wish you a Happy Easter and offer you a most heartfelt . . .

Thank you. Thank you very much.

Gunnin' for good neighbors

We came home from our Saturday siesta and asked Josie if anything unusual had happened.

“Nothing really. Greg was in his underwear standing in the middle of the street shooting his gun around.”

In fact, three elements of her sentence constitute something unusual happening.

On Saturdays when Val and I go out for afternoon drinks we feel a little bit sheepish about leaving the kids home alone. When people ask about them, Val says we leave them home alone for a couple hours because Josie’s “almost 12” and very responsible.

I always correct her and say Josie’s 11. Because that’s what the headlines will say if she or her sister, 6, accidentally burn the house down.

They won’t a say, “A Bright, Responsible Nearly 12-year-old Girl and her Darling 6-year-old Sister Escaped Harm When -- Whoopsie Daisy! -- Their House Burned to the Ground.”

Nope, they’ll say, “Police Question Parents, 11 year old, in ‘Home Alone’ Blaze.”

But we balance her growing responsibilities with our need for alcoholic relief and once every week or so head down to a neighborhood restaurant for drinks and appetizers.

It’s lovely, but we do worry, naturally, as any good concerned parent would.

Well, Val worries.

But hearing Greg was in his underwear firing a gun in the middle of the street was a tad disconcerting.

We live up in the woods. Our next door neighbors are remote. We don’t see them much, but we get along great.

Here’s how I met Greg: It was snowing heavy the stressful 2007 day we moved into our new house.

I looked out the window and saw Greg come roaring up on an ATV with plow attachment and start clearing our driveway.

I went out, introduced myself, and thanked him for the surprising courtesy.

“Ah, it’s nothing,” he said. “I do this every time it snows.”

“Man, if I knew you were going to be my neighbor,” I said, “I’d have paid $5,000 more for this house!”

I wasn’t kidding. A good neighbor is like a good spouse. It it adds priceless contentment to your existence.

From the street, our house is to the right of Greg and Donna’s.

It’s likely the only instance in which I’ll ever be to the right of Greg in anything.

If he cared at all about politics, and he does maybe a little, he’d be to the right of Dick Cheney, a man who likely stands up in church on Christmas Eve and objects when the pastor says it’s time to pray for peace on earth.

I don’t think we’ve ever had a conversation about a local or national problem where he didn’t propose a solution that didn’t involve killing someone.

This would trouble some people, I’m sure. These are people who I suspect don’t mind shoveling their own driveway.

I like him a lot. He’s a great neighbor, one of the best we’ve ever had.

He likes me, too. I can tell this because he’s yet to kill me.

He drives the gargantuan machines they use to build interstate highways. It’s hard work that takes him around the country for months at a time.

It’s difficult for me to stand next to guys like him because I’m always concerned they’ll ask what I’ve been up to.

I’ve yet to tell him I’ve authored a self-help book called, “Use All The Crayons! The Colorful Guide to Simple Human Happiness.”

Maybe I’m wrong, but I think men like him will find it, well, just a little unmanly!

Now, I’d have given him the first copy if my book was called, “Use All the Guns! The Colorful Guide to Simple Human Happiness.”

Come to think of it, in America today that would be a sure best seller. I’m going to have to whip up a proposal.

So when Josie told us he was out in the street firing his gun in the woods, Val and I were concerned. She asked if I was going to do anything.

Indeed, I said. I’m going to do nothing, which is on the passive side of something.

I figured Greg had his reasons and they were probably good ones.

Ten minutes later, the phone rang. It was Greg.

“Hey, man, I figured you were wondering what all the commotion was about. We had a raccoon come up on the porch and start acting funny. It looked rabid. So I followed it across the street and shot it in the woods. I wanted you and your girls to know to be careful if you see any other raccoons running around in the daylight.”

I thanked him for his action and for taking the time to call and warn us.

I wish America, so divided, could get along as well as Greg and I do.

We’re very different, but I’m very happy to know him and have him for a neighbor, even as I would have reacted differently to the situation.

Me, I’d have invited the raccoon in for soothing tea while I checked the internet to see if it was covered under Obamacare.

The moral of the story for me?

Try not to act too funny next time I show up on Greg’s porch.

I turned 50 & no one noticed, me included!

The gentleman settled down on the barstool next to mine and gave me a friendly smile. Gray on the sides, a little thick in the middle, he looked just a bit older than me.

After a little small talk, my new amigo told me it was his 50th birthday. His wife invited him out on the pretense of an intimate dinner and sprang a surprise party on him.

“Ah, congratulations,” I said. “You and I share some of the same scars. I’m 50, as well.”

“Yeah, the big 5-Oh. Did you they throw you a surprise party?”

“No, they didn’t.”

“When was your birthday?” he asked.

I’m not sure, I told him. Near as I can figure it was sometime in May.

“You don’t know your own birthday?”

“Well, I was delivered in February but if you believe life begins at conception, then I was truly born about nine months before. That’s when seed and egg united to make this magnificent me sometime in May so that’s when I was born.

“Really, a birthday is just a delivery date the Department of Motor Vehicles uses for crass bureaucratic purposes. I believe life begins at conception and therefore that’s the day to celebrate.”

He had that same friendly smile on his face when he pointed to the other side of the bar and said, “Nice talking to you. Now I’m taking my drink and I’m going to go sit over there.”

I suspect he moved away because he sensed I was a zealot and he didn’t want to spend part of his 50th birthday in a tavern debating Roe v. Wade trimester legalities with a perfect stranger.

It’s a pity. I think I could have enlivened his delivery day. Because I wasn’t going harangue this gentlemen with talk about abortion, God or political party platforms.

I was talking about a different kind of party.

I wish I’d have thought of this earlier because I could have really had fun with it back in May or so when the biological calendars say I was conceived.

Barring some advance in DNA technology, I’ll never know with precision. My mother might know. It was an important day for her, too, I’m sure, because it was the very last day she ever had sex, me being the youngest and all.

But I’ll never ask her about it for fear she’d remember and describe in detail what happened and then I’d have to kill myself.

My traditional February birthday is one of my favorite days of the year. My friends buy me drinks, my darling daughters resist calling me things like “weird” and “stinky,” and a little sex from the wife is practically guaranteed.

It’s the me trifecta.

I figure by pushing the conception day thingie, I might be able to double my pleasure.

I’m friends with Born Again Christians who post on FaceBook celebratory notes about anniversaries of their spiritual salvation. They could potentially have three birthdays a year. Chuck E. Cheese, look out!

Of course, I’d never dream of asking them about this because asking a B.A.C. anything about religion is like asking someone why they like things like Conan or jam bands. You just can’t get them to shut the hell up about things that make zero sense.

It would involve a drastic change of lifestyle, but I sometimes wonder what it would be like to live on Mercury, the planet nearest the sun. It’s, of course, very warm -- about 700-degrees Fahrenheit -- which means the fairways are probably pretty brown and you need a sunscreen of about SPF 4.5 billion.

But a 49-year-old man like me would have already enjoyed 205 birthdays. That’s a lot of birthday sex.

It would be different on Jupiter where I’d be just 4 and, I guess, within my rights to ride my tricycle back and forth from the bar.

The great thing about being 50 before I turn 50 is it takes a lot of sting out of a day many people dread.

It’s such a momentous milestone. It’s a near certainty 50 means it’s all downhill from here. Despite increasing longevity, few of us will make it to 100.

I’m perfectly fine with that. In fact, I believe in about 30 years I’ll be racing toward death’s embrace before the eventuality I fear most comes true.

That being President Ryan Seacrest.

Really, celebrating our delivery day shows a certain lack of human imagination. I think we can do better.

The idea, I admit, is not without some flaws, but I think we can make it work for a happier birthday society.

I’m speaking conceptually, of course.

Wish they'd televise Olympic clean-up & fence removal

I can’t believe the NBC conglomerate networks that just spent the past two weeks filling our lives with a 5,000-hour mix of Olympic coverage and “Animal Practice” promos are going cold turkey.

And I think an upcoming “Animal Practice” episode involves madcap efforts to raise the feathered body temperature of a cold turkey.

But from 5,000 to zero hours is an enormous scheduling vacuum. I’d like to suggest filling it with Olympic vacuuming.

I’ll watch.

I would. I’d take most of the week off to sit rapt in front of the TV staring at non-athletic and likely hungover minimum wage workers tidying up London. Competitive cleaning would be every bit as compelling as some of the more obscure Olympic events.

There could be recyclable trash sifting, speed sweeping, flag and banner roll up relays, and outhouse interior sanitization -- a timed event that would would show average blue collar workers can when properly motivated move as rapidly as Usain Bolt.

It’s been quite a run for London, a place I’ve yet to visit, but feel like I now know by heart. In the past year, they had the royal wedding, the Queen’s Jubilee, the Olympics and -- not to be morbid -- but 86-year-old Queen Elizabeth could go at any minute. That, too, will be a global event.

For her loyal subjects, that will mean an historic opportunity to reflect and commemorate a beloved and monumental life.

Know what it’ll mean for me?

Fencing!

Not the high-tech confusing pseudo-sport that for some reason is contested in bee-keeper outfits instead of -- Arrr! -- traditional pirate garb.

I’m talking about what to me was the very most impressive physical entity constructed for the entire Olympics: The common nipple-high metal security fence.

It is to security what Stonehenge is to Druidic legend, something vast and inexplicable.

Its deconstruction would be the centerpiece of any Olympic clean-up coverage.

I watched without fail any competition that took athletes out of the stadiums and let them dash through the lovely English countryside. That means marathons, bike races, and the oddly compelling dork walk.

Early on I noticed the entire routes of these races were bracketed by linked steel security fencing.

The marathons were 26 miles. That means at least 52 miles of about 8-foot segments of steel fencing. That’s prodigious.

But that’s not all. The men’s bike race was 155 miles long. Not all of it, certainly, constricted by fencing, but I’ll bet it needed at least another 50 miles.

It was used in Gitmo-like security pens, off-road bike races, and entrances to each and every event where ever spectators queued up (see, I learned something cultural during 5,000 hours of sports viewing).

I wonder about the logistics of it all. Are these stored in some vast, Delaware-sized warehouse or are they already being shipped to Sochi, Russia, for the 2014 winter games?

It seems a waste to just have them sitting around with nothing to do and, boy, can I relate.

It would be fun to see a stacking contest or a steel-fence version of Jenga using construction cranes or robotic arms.

My search to find more about the fencing on the internet was, well, I guess to extend the fencing references was, you could say “foiled.” We may never know.

It would make sense if the International Olympic Committee were fence proprietors.

But in keeping with the spirit of these games I’d like to think each and every person in Britain will take stewardship of a section of fence and that today they are spreading out en masse to claim and store their fence in the car park until further notice.

It would be a nice civic duty and would please me to think of a great nation where multi-ethnic people are united, not divided, by fencing.

And that a country that was en guard for trouble relied on fencing to ensure such a splendid summer spectacular.