Re-run Sunday: I have no black friends

Given this week's racial convulsions, I figured this from August 2009 would be a good re-run. Four years later and I still don't have any black friends. I'm guessing the same is true for many of my white friends. And we're all the poorer for it.

We just spent three days in Washington, D.C., a city I enjoy visiting because of all the big white monuments and regular sized black people.

There’s precious little of either of them here in Latrobe, Pennsylvania. You have to go to the fancy graveyard to see big white monuments and Pittsburgh to see black people.

There’s a poverty of racial diversity where I live and I believe I’m the poorer for it. The only black perspectives I get are the ones filtered by the mostly white executives at places like CNN.

We here in central Westmoreland County are almost uniformly white. Sure, some friendly Hispanics run our tasty Mexican restaurants. Some Asians immigrated here to satisfy our need for dishes like General Tso’s chicken.

But I need to road trip if I ever want to say howdy to an African-American.

I know it’ll doom my Supreme Court prospects, but I always take affirmative action any time I meet black people.

For years, I’ve felt it fell to me to be the white ambassador to the entire African-American race. I’m nicer to black people than I am to white people, and that includes, as I’m sure they’ll angrily attest, my pale-faced loved ones.

I make friendly eye contact. I extend small courtesies. I hope, in my own small way, I can help change any lingering perceptions that we are hopelessly divided by petty reasons of race.

This, of course, is utter foolishness. Any person, black or white, would have to be an idiot to say, “Gee, that white stranger who just introduced himself as Chris and held the door for me seemed like a nice dude. I think I’ll overlook the past 350 years of brutal suppression, slavery and overt racism perpetrated by his fellow Caucasians and go home and download some Barry Manilow tunes!”

Still, it’s the best I can do. I believe other people feel like I do and it’s making a difference.

That’s why I enjoy going to places like Washington and New York. It reminds me that, despite ample evidence of existing racism, things might be improving, even if they don’t seem to be where I live.

I know many of my neighbors would be suspicious if a black family moved in next to them. Not me. I would eagerly cultivate their friendship with an ardor that would have them fending off frequent invitations to dinner, back porch drinks and offers to have me mow their lawn and weed their garden.

Back when I lived in Nashville I could honestly say some of my best friends were black. Now, 20 years later, I can honestly say some of my best friends are rednecks.

They’re appalling racists. But, as I’ve said before, if I were to confine my friendships and conversation to exclusively enlightened people, it would be a very lonely existence and I’d have to stop talking to even myself.

Given all this, of course, I was thrilled by the election of Barack Obama, who I, by lack of any neighborhood alternatives, consider to be my best African-American friend, albeit in a distant FaceBook sort of way.

The others are named Mike Tomlin, Lawrence Timmons, Ziggy Hood and Maurkice Pouncey.

Of course, many of even my redneck friends like those guys, too, but only because they are members of the six-time Super Bowl champion Pittsburgh Steelers. Sure, they’re black, but, man, they’re also Black ‘n’ Gold!

If they were just guys from down the street, they’d be suspicious of them based solely on the color of their skin. That’s wrong and I hope one day that kind of ignorance is vanquished.

If it is, it’ll be in small part because of guys like me, the best friend the African-American race has ever had.

It's just too bad not a single one of them has the slightest inkling of the fact.

Too self-deprecatory? Me? Here's why

(998 words)

A friend of mine who’d enjoyed my book had one gentle rebuke: I’m too critical of myself.

“You go too far in your book -- and your blog, especially -- about your failures,” he said. “You’re too hard on yourself. You’ve had many successes and you’ve done so much that many of your friends admire. We’re proud of you. You should be proud of yourself.

“Why are you so relentlessly self-deprecating?”

Well, for starters, I’m married and marriage is a terrific antidote to excessive ego.

Married men can believe in our hearts we are good husbands, good fathers, good providers, etc., but each of us has nearby matrimonial reminders ever insisting we should all be doing better.

Those voices help keep our spirits grounded. In fact, those same voices sometimes helps keep the rest of us grounded when it says we’re spending too much time out watching baseball with the boys.

Another key factor in my self-deprecatory ways is how I earn my so-called living. I’ve for 21 years been a freelance writer.

I used to say I knew I wasn’t working hard enough if I didn’t receive at least one rejection a day. And pardon me for a little self-deprecatory diversion, but the ethic always reminded me of what it was like for me being dateless in high school the week before prom.

All that professional rejection can warp your mentality.

True, I’ve enjoyed many successes. The problem is they all ended in embarrassing failures. 

Example: I was a valued contributor to what was then a high-profile golf magazine start-up called “Maximum Golf.” The magazine was getting a lot of attention for shaking up the stodgy golf publishing world with bright features and lively writing. It was Rupert Murdoch’s baby and he told the staff he was so confident of its success he was going to throw money at it.

It was 2000 and a lot of that money began raining on me. In no time I became one of their top contributors. In fact, one of the editors invited me to New York City to meet the staff and thank me for my work.

He took me out to a swanky dinner and lavished me with praise. He said -- and these were his exact words, “The magazine is doing gangbusters and you’ve become a big reason why. Everyone loves your stories. We’ve been assured the magazine’s future is very bright and I promise you’re going to be a big part of it.”

Two weeks later, that same editor called and said Rupert had changed his mind and he was closing the magazine.

I didn’t care. My novel was about done. This was where I was going to make my fame and fortune.

The book is called “The Last Baby Boomer: The Story of the Ultimate Ghoul Pool.”

It’s a satire based on the fact that the last baby boomer will be 116 in about the year 2079. People will be so sick of baby boomers by then they’ll put him in a museum suite and charge $25 for people to visit with him for 15 minutes. If they’re in the room when he dies, they win the jackpot.

But he just won’t die and greedy hijinks ensue.

I polished that sucker and with high hopes sent three standard chapters to a prestigious literary agent in 2001. The guy called me back five days after I’d mailed it.

That was like getting a text from Mt. Olympus. He said he loved the premise and the crackling writing. Would I send the rest of the manuscript right away?

I swear, my first thought was, “Should the Cadillac be black or red?”

I never heard from him again. No rejection. No critique. It was like he’d been abducted by aliens.

It was maddening. I eventually began to salve my wounded psyche by concluding the book was so genius it left him in a stupor too great to respond.

That book’s my baby. I’ve had top agents compare it to Kurt Vonnegut and Joseph Heller. So it’s frustrating to hear those same agents say the only way they could sell it if my name were Kardashian.

You’d think “Use All The Crayons!” would mitigate some of my reflexive self-deprecatory tics. And there are plenty of hints it will.

Nearly every day I hear from someone else who says the book is changing their lives for the better. Robby from California read the USAToday.com article, said he’d been depressed and was hoping I’d send him a freebie, as I’ve pledged to do to anyone who asks nicely.

I inscribed the book, as I do each one, “Never forget for even a single instant how many happy colors your life is always adding to the lives of those you love. Remember, together we can all brighten the whole world!”

He wrote back: “Thanks, man. I got the book yesterday and am loving it. But my favorite part is what you wrote to me. Thanks for sharing the love. Have a great day and just keep doing what you’re doing.”

Think it would be impossible to self-deprecate in the face of such a wonderful sentiment?

Not for me.

Keep doing what I’m doing?

I keep thinking that’s the problem.

So here I am again, wide awake in a twilight zone where well-meaning strangers encourage me to persevere down the path that I know from experience has led to so much failure and so little money.

Thus, I don’t see an end to my being so self-deprecatory. Please try and consider it charming.

What’s odd to me is I believe I’m an optimist.

I’ve said I wake up every morning sure something good is going to happen to my career, self-deprecatingly adding “and I’ve been saying that every morning since 1992.”

I still in my heart believe good things are bound to happen.

I’m just becoming less and less sure any of it will ever happen to me. 

Related . . .

My novel’s done! Again!

Reject me, please

Come use our new toilet!

(716 words)

I’m having a party and you’re all invited. Just be sure to wear comfortable shoes. There’s only going to be one place to sit and it’s the new commode.

See, I’m having trouble finding anyone willing to test drive the new toilet.

The re-doing the bathroom project proved every bit as hellacious as I’d predicted. Me and my buddy Joe tore out the old tile floor, ditched the old sink/cabinet and teeter-totter toilet.

In their place we put a gleaming new tile floor, a new pedestal sink and the new AquaSource 1.28 GPF WaterSense Elongated 2-Piece Comfort Height Toilet

Truly, a throne fit for a king.

The problem is I can’t persuade my darling little princesses to ascend their precious little keisters up upon the royal realm.

I think it’s because I made too big a deal of who’d get to inaugurate the new potty.

This began when I was about half-way through the project and began to sense we’d actually finish. I was feeling heady with accomplishment.

“All right, who’s going to break it in?” I asked. “You need to understand this is a true honor. How many times are any of us going to get the opportunity to say they were the very first to use a brand spanking new toilet?”

I thought my adjectival use of “spanking” and toilet was very deft.

And I was being honest. I remember when we were kids on vacation my brother and I would race to see who’d get to tear off the sanitary seals hotel maids put on the lids to let the guests know the bowl was daisy fresh.

I said the honor should go to good ol’ Joe. He’s a great friend and really did a great job on tiling the floor. I would never have known how to go about it -- and he was just splendid company throughout. He worked expertly, never got angry or frustrated and was just as good company as he is at the bar or on the golf course.

Who knew a guy like that could be fun sober?

“So I think the honor should go to you, Joe,” I said. “Val will cook you up a big bowel-aggravating dinner and we’ll just sit around and wait our turn until you go first.”

My offer seemed to make Joe uncomfortable. Or maybe he has performance issues.

That would be a lot of pressure, akin to a pregnant woman about to deliver a baby with all the nebby in-laws waiting right outside the door to hear if it’s a boy or a girl.

Joe declined the honor. I told him I understood and promised I’d still think of him ever time I used the toilet.

But the whole exchange seemed to affect the girls. I’d convinced them to believe this is some grand honor and the pressure is great.

Of course, I may be reading too much into it, me always happy to engage in crackpot psychology.

Or would that in this case be crackpotty psychology?

I don’t know why they’re so worried. It’s not like I’m going to be standing there outside the door in a white lab smock, holding a clipboard with a list of questions about their experience: Was it comfortable? Any unwanted splashing? Will you recommend the toilet to your friends?

Sure, that’s all important to me, too, but I’m just trying to learn if the thing works.

The old one didn’t at all. Its flush was inefficient. It was poorly secured to the floor and had wiggled back and forth like a rocking chair anytime you shifted your weight.

At the risk of being redundant you could say it was a really crappy toilet.

So I’m thinking of having a potty party.

Re-doing this bathroom was a really big job. There should be ceremony, there should be pomp.

This, to me, isn’t just a place to dump. It’s an HOF DIY achievement.

Not celebrate the new toilet? I feel like we should break a bottle of champaign over the lid like they do when they launch a grand cruise ship.

So, yeah, maybe we’ll have a party. With bubbly. Lots of it.

Why not?

For some reason, I’m feeling what you could call flush.

Related . . .

Home improvements & looming heart attacks

Flush-free toilets in golden age

No AC making me cool

(762 words)

This is going to sound contradictory, but being without air conditioning is making me the coolest man in town.

During this sweltering season, I continue to defy conventions that say without air conditioning it’s impossible to exist.

Let me clarify: There’s air conditioning at the place where three girls let me sleep.

If I suggested we go without they’d tell me I had to leave and they would continue to live in the air conditioned place where I played a role in helping to conceive two of the three voters.

So that’s not my call.

What is my call is not having AC in my vehicle or in my office; the first an inconvenience, the second a decision.

I used to consider the small office window unit AC a summer must. I did this out of habit even as took no joy from its meager chill.

First of all, it made the office too dark and I prefer sunshine, even when it’s baking me to a crisp.

Second, it turned the place into a tiny prison cell. No air could enter. The window needed to be sealed for the AC unit to function. That meant not even a breath of air would puff around the office, even in the early mornings when the day’s still pleasant.

Lastly, I began to resent its inefficiency. It would cool down only the left side of my face, the part nearest to the blowers. The rest of me was still sticky.

I told Keith, the bartender, about it and he responded with a question: “Your chair swivels, doesn’t it?”

A problem solver, he was suggesting I spend my day twirling around in my chair like some human washing machine agitator to distribute the cool more evenly.

So I tried it. It did distribute the cool, but you have no idea how difficult it is to type even a simple sentence when your fingers are trying to re-locate the computer keys every three seconds as your hands spin over them like a monkeys on merry-go-rounds.

His suggestion meant productivity would be impossible. Plus, spending my day up here spinning ‘round and ‘round meant I wouldn’t need to spend any time in the bar getting dizzy by alcoholic means and that would deprive me of Keith’s company and I’d miss him.

So I’ve decided to go without office air. It isn’t easy, but I can work from the library or home during the oppressive afternoons.

I’ve yet to take my computer into the bar for fear that I’d write something so brilliant I’d dump the office altogether and just spend my entire day in the bar, a move that would certainly result in Val eventually tossing my stuff out onto the yard, giving Keith a whole raft of new problems to solve.

The car’s another matter. I noticed on the first hot day in May that the AC was kaput. It was something I’d need repaired, for sure.

At least that’s what I thought until the boys at the garage gave me their diagnosis.

“We can have it done by lunch,” the mechanic said. “It’s gonna cost $729.”

“Order your men to drop their tools and back away from my car,” I commanded. “I don’t want them to touch it.”

Instead, I picked up my car -- a 2007 Saturn Vue -- and drove straight to the barbershop.

Instead of spending $729, I spent $14 on a really tight haircut. The Saturn has 106,992 miles, but the windows still go up and down. A tidy haircut meant I could drive anywhere with the windows down and still appear presentable.

No matter the discomfort, I can’t afford $729 for something that just 50 years ago was considered a posh luxury, the modern equivalent of in-home car elevators like Mitt and Ann Romney enjoy.

See, that’s the thing. Air conditioning is a relatively new phenomenon. The first in-home air conditioning didn’t exist until, in fact, 1914; the first air-conditioned car didn’t tool along until the 1939 Packard.

Prior to that, our ancestors just toughed it out. If they could do it, why can’t we? 

The stance is turning me into a quasi celebrity. People are asking me I’m still hanging in there. They want to know if I can make it all summer. 

I think this could finally be my long-elusive niche: I’m the man too cool for AC.

You could say it’s the role for which I was destined.

That I’m a natural.

Just don’t say it’ll be no sweat.

Related . . .

Heat wave screams for “cool” clothes

On the hottest day of the year, a toast to ice

Too much Zimmerman commentary: Here's mine!

(730 words)

You may or may not have noticed a deliberate trend here on the blog: It’s much less topical than it used to be.

I used to write much more “off the news,” a phrase that means I’d read the paper, pick the most topical story and then riff on it.

That meant at this time last year I was writing a lot about politics and angry strangers shooting multiple innocents.

Not so much lately.

In fact, recent blog topics include ants on gum, the idea that eating circular pizza three times a day can be a well-rounded diet and -- speaking of well-rounded -- Hilary Swank’s nipples.

Those are all top-of-the-head ideas, something I basically pulled out of thin air.

And as I mentioned top-of-the-head, I should re-emphasize that the ideas where pulled out of thin air. Not thin hair, something else that’s occurring on the top of my head.

But I always do try and address any big national story just to get my thoughts on record for anyone who might care.

That’s why the George Zimmerman acquittal leaves me conflicted.

Because who really cares what I think?

Who cares what anyone thinks?

I read all the opinions today. The thing that strikes me most is how much of them there are and how little of it is relevant. 

We live during a time where the only thing that exceeds our national inarticulateness is the number of megaphones possessed by all those who have nothing to say -- and that salient critique is coming from just another guy with a blog!

I despise the news organizations that read roll calls of celebrity Tweets about the verdict. It’s reporting at its laziest. 

The only ones I care to hear from are the six jurors. 

Jurors in most every case bring a refreshing wisdom to the proceedings. They heard all the evidence. They genuinely care about a just verdict. I admire their insights and dedication to hearing all the facts.

That there were only six of them and they were all white women is a little troubling, but that’s what both sides agreed to.

I’m just glad I wasn’t selected for this jury.

Because how could anyone make such a god-like decision in a case with evidence as foggy as this? I don’t recall a case where so many reasonable seeming witnesses so diametrically disagreed with one another over the same set of facts.

Me, I thought a manslaughter conviction would have been fair. There were so many ways Zimmerman could have avoided the conflict that wound up escalating into senseless death.

By coincidence, my iPod random selected Bruce Springsteen’s “American Skin (41 Shots)” as I was weighing whether I should address the verdict or something just silly.

Never heard it? It’s a soul-searing lament about the 1999 killing of Amadou Diallo, who at 23 was the unarmed target of 41 shots, 19 of which struck him, when police wrongly suspected him of being a rapist with a gun.

They were mistaken. He was a scared kid in a dim hallway reaching for his wallet.

Springsteen played the song during his ’12 tour as tribute to Trayvon Martin, a nod to the many poignant parallels.

What I like about “American Skin” is that unlike so much of the commentary polluting the airwaves today it is totally non-judgmental.

“Is it a gun? Is it a knife? Is it a wallet? This is your life. It ain’t no secret, no secret my friend. You can get killed just for living in your American Skin.”

Gets me every time.

I can only imagine what it would do to me if I was the father of two young black men.

I guess the comments that most resonate with me where the ones from another black man cut down too young by gun fire.

“We must learn to live together as brothers or perish together as fools.”

That’s from Martin Luther King Jr.

Today I prefer King’s sentiment to the cacophony of hate coming from those who say Trayvon Martin had it coming and those who say Zimmerman’s going to get his.

God help us.

And if that’s too much to ask, how about this?

God help them.

Help the ones who feel the Zimmerman verdict means they’re doomed to be target practice just for living in their American skin.

Related . . .

Hilary Swank & all my neighborhood nipples

Posses, verdicts & vengeance

Help improve global communication: Punch a foreigner!

(798 words)

I have an idea that might bring all of humanity together and it involves inflicting painful surprises on unsuspecting foreigners.

Who’s with me!

Now put down those crowbars. Our intention is to unite, not maim.

No, I’m on a crusade to find the most universal expression in human linguistics, a word that transcends borders and dialects, something that is instantly understood by every single human on the planet.

Because I think there’s only one word and if we can identify it, then that’s something upon which we can build.

Understand, this isn’t the world’s most popular word, which reputable sources declare is “okay.” Unlike Coke, “hello” or McDonald’s “okay” is an American export that has been embraced even by people who hate America and Americans.

Think about it. You could one day be wrongly imprisoned in a Turkish prison and the one-eyed cafeteria cook could point his bent ladle at a tub of gruel and you could say, “Okay,” and -- voila! -- you’re communicating and on the road to friendship.

I was surprised to learn “okay” is, according to the venerable Oxford English Dictionary, only 174 years old. Of course, in all the years prior to 1839 there was no electricity, no in-door plumbing and virulent diseases rampaged humanity.

In fact, you could say nothing about the world was okay until the 1970s when the the Pittsburgh Steelers started winning Super Bowls.

One story says “okay” is an initialism that stood for “oll korrect,” a jokey Boston newspaper construction of the more proper “all correct.” So a term meant to convey everything was correct is itself laced with inkorrectness.

And this isn’t about the most common word, the top 10 of which are as follows:

10. I

9. have

8. that

7. in

6. a

5. and

4. of

3. to

2. be

1. the

Those are boring, utilitarian words that add zero zing to our communications.

I’m looking for a word that is as immediately understood by people who speak Swahili as it is by those who communicate in Mandarin.

I thought it might be “Ha!” But that seems exclusive to Western speech. What indicates humor to us might be interpreted differently by Eastern cultures I hear using “Ha!” as part of martial arts exercises.

For example, you could see something that strikes you as funny in some parts of Asia and exclaim “Ha!” and might receive a karate chop to the throat from someone who mistakes your laughter as a sign of pending attack.

I thought about the common Western expression, “Ahhh . . .” Many of us say, “Ahhh . . .” when we see a new baby or a kitten chasing a butterfly.

But that’s far from universal. Someone who sufferes from gum disease might hear someone say, “Ahhh . . .” and reflexively open their mouths in anticipation of dental intervention. 

And there are many sour people who you just can’t imagine saying, “Ahhh . . .” about anything. Dick Cheney comes to mind.

Show Cheney a picture of “E.T.” and he’ll think about the tactical adjustments necessary to waterboard the alien’s toaster-shaped head, a procedure that would inevitably lead the extra-terrestrial to utter the one word I think is universal to mankind -- and beyond.

“Ouch!”

Yes, after much thought, I think the most universally understood expression is one of surprise pain.

“Ouch!”

We say it without thinking anytime we stub a toe, bump our heads on a open cabinet corner, or hammer a thumb instead of a nail.

“Ouch!”

We say it before the inevitable profanity, which I think is maybe the 11th most commonly used English word. 

I’m convinced here in America my theory is correct. But further research into different cultures is needed.

That’s why I’m asking Americans to do something, sadly, many Americans enjoy doing without even the slightest provocation, let alone for purposes of scholarly research.

Yes, I’m asking you to punch a foreigner!

Not in the face or the stomach. For this to be done properly, the research punch must be administered right in the arm. Make a fist, hinge the arm at the elbow, and deploy a brisk descending blow to the outer arm.

“Ouch!”

Greek, Kenyan, Saudi, Thai -- I can pretty much guarantee that’s the first word you’ll hear followed, of course, by a torrent of angry profanity you’re unlikely to understand.

Americans are targets, too, so my international friends should feel free to go ahead and whack us right back. 

I think it might help people blow off steam if we could, strictly for research purposes, go up and blast an unsuspecting stranger in the arm.

Who knows? Maybe the interaction will lead to a recognition that we need more words and expressions to bring us together.

And when that happens then everything all around the world will be fine.

It’ll be oll korrect.

Related . . .

Word quest

Dipsh!t (and me) turn 50 this year!

The joy of ants on gum

(658 words)

I try on my near-daily strolls to keep my eyes on the horizon. I enjoy the scenery and wouldn’t want to miss any friendly faces that might be ready to brighten my day with a smiling howdy.

But to be looking up and around all the time is risky. There are puddles, root intrusions and other sidewalk inconsistencies ready to trip distracted pedestrians.

Ideally, I’ll one day evolve a third eye pointing down out of my chin. It will make  shaving more perilous, but will decrease the odds I’ll ever trip or have my Sketchers fouled by dog turds.

Or chewing gum.

That’s what almost happened yesterday. I was motoring along when out of the corner of my eye I spied a big wad of discarded gum smack dab in the middle of the sidewalk.

I was beginning to take evasive maneuvers when I noticed the frenzy of activity crawling all over the gum. There were I guess about 100 ants.

And they were having a party.

It reminded me of how humans looked that November night 23 years ago when the Berlin Wall came down. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a species behaving more euphorically.

And more were on the way.

It was like the ants had texted all there friends to get their ant butts over to the 1200 block of Ligonier Street because a giant wad of gum had just fallen straight out of the sky and there was plenty for everyone.

The joy, the utter satiation, was so evident, so complete, that for the first time in my life I envied an ant. At that moment, those ants wanted nothing but gum and there was all the gum they’d ever need.

I was witnessing one of nature’s most humble species pitched into a state of sheer nirvana.

It sounds like some scientist’s idea of a math prank, but I’ve read if you add up the weight of every ant on the planet, it would exceed the combined weight of every human. And that includes guys like 360-pound Steeler nose tackle Casey Hampton.

Another ant fact: Ants can be found on every continent on Earth except on the one that seems named in their honor. Yes, there are no ants on Antarctica.

I tried to think of the human equivalent to ants having a wad of gum fall out of nowhere and came up blank.

I’ve seen stories about highway frenzies when Brinks trucks started spewing loot, but that wouldn’t be very communal. Individuals would grab all the cash they could and flee.

Most of the things that would give people mass happiness -- free booze, drugs -- are too illicit for people to really revel in.

I’ve been to some great pig roasts and once feasted at an outstanding crawfish boil back in Nashville, but those tastes aren’t universal.

How about chocolate? That’s something most of us enjoy. Let’s say a giant chunk of chocolate just crashed down from the heavens -- and for it to be scale equivalent to the ant-to-gum ration it would need to be about the size of a Target store.

Local authorities would rope it off, HAZMAT crews would be deployed, tests would be conducted -- guaranteed nobody would shuck their shoes and start climbing all over it to start nibbling off bites.

And you’d be ridiculed if you suggested just maybe the giant chunk of chocolate was a gift from God, as if He thought, “You know, they’ve had it pretty tough lately. I think I’ll just drop a great, bit chunk of milk chocolate on them so they’ll understand that sometimes great gifts can fall straight from the sky.”

Maybe we could learn a thing or two from the wise old ants.

I wish I could leave you with a more profound conclusion, but one is proving evasive.

So there you have it.

Just a story about ants and gum, something for you to chew on.

Related . . .

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