Will getting a harp help get me into heaven?

(695 words)

Because I believe it’ll increase my chances of getting into heaven, I’m thinking of acquiring a good used harp.

Being an skillful harp player might convince Pearly Gate keepers to overlook my sloth, my gluttony and all that chronic flatulence to help me make the heavenly cut.

Swanson Harps in Boston has a Lyon & Healy 6161-23 for $16,900, a far better bargain than the $44,900 Swanson Art Nouveau.

The website is worth a browse. It talks about used harps with the same loving descriptions you see on some of the “who-wants-to-date-a-stranger!” sites.

“We may be prejudiced, but we believe this may be the most beautiful harp ever made! It was commissioned by a harpist in Boston and designed and hand carved by master woodcarver Will Neptune. It is the only one that was made and so is totally unique.”

Experienced cynics would likely respond to that puffery with, “Well, sure she’s a lovely harp, but what they don’t tell you is when you go to pick her up for dinner you find out she has five bratty harp kids.”

We took the kids to see “Young Frankenstein: The Musical,” last week. Loved it.

But I was distracted by the enormous harp rising from the orchestra pit. It was nearly as big as the monster. Yet the woman who plucked it looked a better match for the flute. How’d she lug that thing around?

I don’t know why I’m surprised harpists are often dainty. It is, after all, the angel’s instrument.

“If there’s a rock ’n’ roll heaven, you know they got a helluva a band.” 

That’s what the Righteous Brothers sang in 1974. 

That may be, but if you believe the Bible all the band is playing are horns and harps.  No Stratocasters, bass, keyboards or other instruments I consider essential to rock ’n’ roll heaven. No cowbell.

And no harps! I’m talking about your standard mouth organ which somehow became known as a harp, French harp or blues harp. The unnecessary confusion infuriates me.

I remember when I was a kid hearing Keith Richards say, “An’ ‘en Mick pulls out the ol’ harp anna place goes wild.”

I couldn’t picture Jagger plucking harp chords for some baroque version of  “Sympathy for the Devil.” Then I learned the English bluesmen (and American) all call the harmonica the harp.

It’s odd that there’ll be harps-a-plenty in rock ’n’ roll heaven, but I can name more great rock songs featuring bagpipes, three, (Steve Earle’s “Copperhead Road,” and AC/DC’s “Thunderstuck” and “It’s a Long Way To The Top”), than I can great rock harp songs, one, even though it’s the kind of “rock” song that sounds like it were composed by Franz Schubert.

It’s “She’s Leaving Home,” from Sgt. Pepper, one of just a handful of songs in which none of the Beatles plays any instruments.

It’s an entirely stringed arrangement led by harpist Sheila Bromberg.

I found her e-mail address and was tempted to get in touch. It’d be very cool for me to say I’ve corresponded with the woman who played harp on “She’s Leaving Home,” but it would be very disappointing for her, I’m sure, because she’d initially think I was a legitimate writer and then I’d have to explain the stupid blog name all over again.

She said the “She’s Leaving Home” session was very rushed and the only Beatle present was Paul.

"In actual fact he was quite difficult to work with because he wasn't too sure what he actually wanted. He said ‘No, I don't want that, I want something…' but he couldn't describe what he wanted and I tried it all every which way.”

I’m sure she’s speaking on a purely professional level and so I forgive the harpist for sounding like a harpy, which according to Greek mythology is a nasty monster with a woman’s face and body and a bird’s wings and claws, which sounds more like Yoko than Bromberg (pictured above).

And that’s all I’ll say about that. On the topic of harps, I'll harp no more.

I have some running around to do.

All together now: “‘e’s leaving home!”

Bye, bye.

Related . . .

America’s Got Talent . . . Not!

Listening to classic rock with my senile mom

How old will you be in heaven?

RIP Bobby Keys: Is this his last song?

Raising hell or lowering heaven? Our idiomatic afterlives

Sunday encore! "Mirrors! Mirrors! On the walls!"

In March of 2011, I wrote about how much better off we’d all be if we all got rid of all the mirrors. I still believe it.

I dreamed last night of a world where all mankind was free of time’s tyranny, an age when leisure reigned and all were at liberty to engage in endless recreation and cerebral improvement.

And today I’m going to help launch that age by embarking on a mirror-smashing crusade.

Any ensuing bad luck will be offset by usefully harvesting all the time now wasted judgmentally staring into mirrors.

We as a society are obsessed with appearance and mirrors are to blame. They are everywhere.

Even utilitarian mirrors installed for safety purposes become detriments to it. How many fender-benders are caused by distracted motorists using review mirrors to ensure their lips still have that pouty appeal?

I’ve become intensely more aware of mirrors, the time I spend gazing into them and how they ruin my day because I recently purchased a protective mirror skin for my smart phone.

I vainly thought it might come in handy if I was ever about to enter an important meeting with an authority figure and needed to ensure nothing repulsive was dangling from my oversized right nostril.

This was foolish on multiple levels. First of all, few of us are ever more than 10 feet from a handy mirror. Many rooms have vanity mirrors installed in places where great art ought to hang.

Second, I haven’t had an important meeting with an authority figure since I was summoned from detention to the high school principal for interrogation over who yanked the fire alarm the morning of spring finals (no, I didn’t crack).

But I thought, yeah, maybe a little mirror would be useful.

Instead of being useful, it is an ever-offensive reminder that my appearance has become ever offensive. It’s like having a pocket-sized judgmental twin always staring at me and mocking all my facial flaws as he sits on my desk.

First of all, the human face, especially an aging one, is inherently repugnant and should not be studied in places with adequate lighting from any vantage point inside of 10 feet.

At arm’s length, my face is a mottled moonscape of gaping pores, festering moles, old hockey scars, and a blooming nasal field of wine-colored surface capillaries. The teeth are a jagged horror show uniformly screened in shades of yellow, pale and gray.

It is utterly repellent. And hold on a sec while I check . . .

Yep, I still consider my face damned handsome.

Still, I spend a lot of time throughout each and every day looking in mirrors for reasons I cannot explain, knowing each time it will only depress me. It’s not like my face is going to look better when I check it 10 minutes from now.

No, time and gravity will continue to ravage me with its claws. There’s no chance my face is going to look better in five years than it does today, which is a hell of a lot worse than it looked five, 10, 20 years ago.

I think in time we’ll come to a consensus that authentic mirrors are harmful to our mental well-being. Perhaps, some genius is right now working on a mirror that will individually show us -- not as we are -- but as what we once were.

We can program the mirror to mimic our movements while projecting images of us from how we looked back when we were all young and fresh.

Until that day, I argue we should replace each and every mirror with things like still-life paintings of bowls of fruits and cheeses.

That way if we wanted to achieve our goals of looking at something beautiful, we’d see works of art instead of, ugh, close-ups of all our miserable faces.

And I apologize for this exercise in harsh self-indulgence.

The thoughts expressed here, I’m sure, do not reflect well on me.

Just like so many mirrors.

Do friendships extend lives? Not friends like mine

(647 words)

I just a heard a radio news story that said having good friends is the key to longer life.

Clearly, the people working the radio news programs have cut back on their fact checkers.

In fact, your friends are killing you.

I know mine are killing me.

My friends never call me to attend a poetry reading, a vegen cooking class or join them for a bike trail fitness jag. My friends don’t call up and say, “Hey, I have a great idea. Let’s have a yoga party!”

No, my friends are the kind that call and say, “Hey, I have a great idea. Let’s have a TOGA party!”

It’s been like this since shortly after I climbed out of the playpen, stole the old man’s car keys and drove to the bad side of town to snag my first fake ID.

Name: Hap Hazard!

From then on it’s been nothing but good times with bad influences.

It was that way in high school, college, and through that slim but memorable epoch when I was gainfully employed.

The faces have changed, but the indelible characteristics are the same: My friends have always liked to laugh and to drink.

I write about being drunk a lot and some of it’s a colorful exaggeration for storytelling purposes. It didn’t used to be.

My life’s been haphazard ever since I became Hap Hazard.

I’m today a very social drinker. I enjoy being convivial amongst cheerful inebriates. It confuses the teetotaler, but getting drunk is a secondary priority to the primary motivation behind a long night of drinking.

Most people who drink do so because they love to laugh.

In fact, I could give up drinking today, but then I’d never see all my drunken friends again. They all love to drink and they like to go to places where it’s customary to order drinks if you’re going to sit there and talk.

If you’re in a bar and you’re not drinking, it’s just loitering.

Sure, I could sit there and sip booze-free Shirley Temples, but that would be fraudulent and my whiskey-guzzling friends would beat me up for what I’m sure they’d consider a rash betrayal.

Mine are the kind of friends that like me just the way I am.

In fact, I remember when I was a senior at Ohio University in Athens, Ohio, I was friends with two younger guys who sort of admired me for my recklessness. That’s common in college, especially for those educated in Athens where a popular T-shirt read: “Ohio University: A Fountain of Knowledge Where I Go To Drink.”

They said they were recounting stories of my year of bold heroics. Back then everyone called me “C.R.”

“Tim said, ‘You know if C.R. ever changes we’d have to kill him.’ I agreed. Killing you for changing even a little bit would be better because you changing would kill the rest us.”

How could having homicidal friends like that be adding years to my life?

I’m convinced if anyone ever said I needed an intervention, all my real friends would intervene before any actual intervention could take place.

This came up last November (see top link) when the doctor asked if anyone ever suggested I drink less.

I told her honestly, ““No, in fact, outside of my wife, everyone I know suggests I drink more. Without fail, every time I try and leave a bar, someone always says, ‘Oh, have one more! I’m buying!’ That makes leaving awkward. If I could have figured out a way to get paid to drink I could have afforded regular doctor visits years ago.”

So, no, I dispute the claim that my friendships are extending my life. My friends are killing me.

And may God bless each and every one of ‘em.

I’d much rather die of premature misadventure than boredom.

Related . . .

Results from my first physical … in 18 years!

My history of drinking at or near work

No 1 Party Boy from the No. 1 Party School

Friendship, The Boss & Thanksgiving drunk dialing

“I love you, men!”

Weddings, friendship and a pooka named Paul

My talk to 8th graders a near debacle (at first)

(676 words)

Something happened to me yesterday that hadn’t happened in 38 years: I was sent to the middle school principal’s office.

Just the recollection of the last visit made my butt start to sting.

I believe I was maybe the last 8th grader to get paddled in the Mt. Lebanon School District. It happened to me about five times and I’ve heard it hasn’t happened since.

Mt. Lebanon today is much more enlightened. They no longer paddle disruptive 8th graders. Today they are more famous for luring, penning and slaughtering local deer who’ve had had the temerity to nibble on posh Lebo shrubbery.

Anyhoo.

I can’t remember what I did for the beefy, humorless principal to paddle me, but I’m sure it was something funny.

I was really funny in 8th grade. It got me into lots of trouble

My fear yesterday was I hadn’t been funny enough.

My much-ballyhooed talk to 200 area 8th graders looked like it was going to be a total debacle. I’d front-loaded all my best jokes into the opening. I figured if I could get them laughing right away I’d have them with me the whole time.

Nothing worked. I was bombing. They hated me.

I’ve never before been the focus of such an intense concentration of visceral hate — and I’m the guy who once stood up in a banquet hall full of Pennsylvania’s top journalists and said, “Hi! I’m Chris Rodell and I write stories for National Enquirer!”

And, remember, this was the speech I’d planned to break free from using notes and a podium. On stage it was just me and a mic. If they were going to start hurling their smart phones at my noggin there was no where to hide.

It was going so bad I remember at one point thinking, man, I may one day again accept another invitation to talk to 8th graders but I’ll never again try and do it sober.

And the whole thing was being filmed. I’d paid my buddy, a professional videographer, a stipend to tape it.

I’m eager to see the tape to pinpoint when it began to turn. I think it was after I’d exhausted all my sappy platitudes about being nice and started to tell them how so many otherwise successful adults admit to struggling with many of the same concerns and insecurities as do they, and that there are attitudinal ways we can overcome all that to enjoy rich, happy lives regardless of our earnings.

It was either that or they began to feel pity for me when I began sarcastically moaning how nice it must be for them to get a weekly allowance when I did not.

I wonder if I subconsciously sabotage myself so when I finally start to make sense the comeback seems all the more spectacular.

That’s what happened. They eventually began cheering and by the end rushed forward to meet me. At first they wanted to kill me and then they wound up praising me for the warmth of my message.

So it was sort of like parts of the Easter story only in reverse.

Then came word the principal wanted to see me and all the old ghosts began to rise. Had I screwed up? Was I in trouble?

“No! You were great!” she said.

So was she. She was pretty, vivacious and said the nicest things about me. She looked nothing like the mean old bastards who paddled me for being funny. In fact, she said I was funny and didn’t reflexively reach for a ruler.

Then it got better.

“The school would like to buy a copy of your book for each of our 8th graders.”

An already very nice payday had just like that quadrupled.

I sat there silently for so long she must have thought I’d been considering a bone-headed counter offer.

“Is something wrong?”

“No, not at all,” I said. “I was just sitting here thinking how this is the best time I’ve ever had in the principal’s office.”

Funny how things change.

Related . . . 

I’m getting paid to talk to 8th graders

My rock star requirements for local library book signing

My Saturday speech: a surprising success

My most humiliating book signing ever

Bullies, my ‘stache & insane reaction to my speech

I speak: Some laugh, some cheer, some snooze

Happy St. Patrick's Day! On great Irish creatures

(722 words)

The Irish are so cool they’re the only “i” entity that hasn’t tried a trendy rebrand as something techy, like “iRish” or “iReland.”

I’ve never been to Ireland and am fearful if I go I either wouldn’t fit in, which would be a terminal blow to what little remains of my cool, or else I’d fit in so spectacular they’d by acclaim make me an honorary Irishman and send me on an eternal pub tour that would not expire until I did.

That would be bad because instead of being poor and near home, I’d be poor and a trans-Atlantic flight away from my loved ones, albeit the very ones who refer to me “The Big Hairy Snoring Fart Monster,” something I’m sure no proper Irish host would do. 

But a month in Ireland either with my darling family or a bunch of drunken strangers is on my bucket list.

As I said, I’ve may never been to Ireland, but two weeks ago Ireland came to me.

I was invited to “Jump Into Ireland” festivities at Pittsburgh’s Fairmont Hotel. It was a promotional evening hosted by Tourism Ireland. They were eager to stir interest in Emerald Idle tourism.

My ambitions were less sophisticated. Yep, I wanted get good and drunk. Free!

The latter motivation may make me seem small.

See, I forever battle against stereotypical mindsets. I believe in my heart it’s unfair to view any nationality or race through any narrow prism. I make no prejudicial judgements about African-Americans, Mexicans, Chinese, others, etc. I take everyone at face value.

All but the Irish. When the Irish invite me to an Irish soiree, I expect a good brain soaking.

My past is partly to blame. I sort of learned to how to behave in a bar at the feet — some nights literally — of great Irish pubs men.

The bar is The Pour House in Carnegie. It’s still there and it’s still great. It’s much more upscale now, but back then it was one of the few bars that would serve kids with dainty fringes of peach fuzz on their chins.

I think I was 12.

The bartender was one of the greatest characters I’ve ever known. Indeed, he looked just like a leprechaun. His name was Dick Collins, but everyone knew him as Dick the Druid.

He was just this incredibly gifted storyteller, something me and my buddies had never truly experienced. And there was, indeed, a lot of booze.

He, for reasons I cannot recollect, would call shots of Jameson “creatures.” He’d tell a great often filthy story and always conclude with, “and that, gentlemen, leaves us with an opportunity to refresh ourselves with yet another creature.”

I cannot fathom how I survived my reckless youth, but I sure had a lot of fun.

So I was disappointed when “Jump Into Ireland” wasn’t dispensing free Irish liquor. Instead of free creatures, I sipped California wine.

Of course, I still had a great time. The food, the music and especially my Irish hosts were delights.

That’s why I was tickled when a friend of an Irish hotelier sent me an e-mail saying she would love to buy a copy of my book. She wanted my PayPal account (it’s Chris Rodell, btw) info. In fact, the e-mail said she was an editor at a prestigious Irish publishing house.

In my mind, I imagined her being so overjoyed by my book that she’d invite me to Ireland where I’d conduct dramatic “Use All The Crayon” readings to weepy Irish publicans who’d become bored with Yeats, Swift and Joyce.

I responded like it was an audition. I sent this long, witty note conveying how thrilled I was she wanted to buy my book. But one book, I said, might get lonesome. At the risk of appearing opportunistic, couldn’t she think of some friends who’d like the book?

And, hey, how many people live in Ireland?

The form reply was instantaneous: “Thank you for your note. Alison no longer works here . . .”

Despite multiple entreaties, I haven’t heard back since. It’s like the last item on her departure to-do list was “Punk Chris Rodell.”

Doesn’t bother me a bit.

The perhaps unintentional slight by one Irish creature won’t diminish the fond memories I have of so many others.

Happy St. Patrick’s Day!

Related . . .

To hell with ethics: eat at Claddah Pub

World Cup teams should be religious fanatics

Back behind bars: me!

Bar book signing Thursday!

A wee bit o’ bummin’ on St. Patrick’s Day

Choose Cheerfulness! Could be year's best week

(778 words)

I woke up today believing this could be maybe the best week of the whole year. I encourage you to indulge that feeling right along with me.

It’s a helpful Monday mindset because the alternative is likely to depress.

First of all, it is indeed Monday. The weekend will never be more distant. That’s very unfair to Monday. When I run the world, we’re going to rotate the weekends throughout the week.

Either way, Monday will be out of the way soon enough.

One of the reasons this could be the best week of the year is it heralds the reemergence of Arnold Palmer. His Bay Hill tournament begins today and runs through Sunday.

After a long cold Latrobe winter without Palmer, it just feels better knowing he’ll soon be back in Pennsylvania.

Palmer’s 85. That’s old in me and you years. Not in Palmer years.

Anytime I hear anyone say no one lives forever, I point we won’t know that for sure until the final stories of Palmer and Keith Richards are told.

The two have never met. But every day that passes increases the chances that they one day will. I think they’re really going to hit it off. I think Palmer will teach Richards how to golf and Richards will teach Palmer to play guitar.

Richards will tell Entertainment Weekly if he’d have known Palmer in ’64, it would have been Palmer rather than Jagger singing “Satisfaction.”

Another reason the could be the best week of the year?

March Madness!

It is maybe our greatest and certainly our most unifying sporting event on the entire calendar.

The Super Bowl is watched by more people, but the Super Bowl is very divisive. There’s only two teams and one of them usually inspires national hatred.

Most of America went into this Super Bowl hating the Patriots for being arrogant cheats. I was fine with that right up to the last minute when it looked like they were going to suffer a heart-breaking loss and that made me very happy.

Then the Seahawks blew it on an inexplicably bone-headed call. So I woke up a godforsaken Monday near the middle of bitter winter hating two teams. 

March Madness features 68 college basketball teams. It’s harder to hate college players because most of them are still a few years away from having fully realized rap sheets. So they’re easier to root for.

Sure, there’s a few villainous teams, this year it’s undefeated Kentucky, but when they lose — and I think they will — it’ll be like a national holiday. Everyone will be happy, even those who have their brackets blown to bits.

That’s the beauty of March Madness. Just about every body has a stake and it’s usually minor enough and the odds long enough that losing does not devastate. And the upsets and Cinderellas add real romance to the tournament.

So having near-round the clock meaningful basketball on for four days at the end of this week adds to the luster of what could be the best week of the year.

And the weather continues to improve! The sights, sounds and smells of the sweeter seasons are everywhere. That’s wonderful.

What else?

Well, for me, there’s this: I’m getting paid to talk to 8th graders on Wednesday!

I’m very excited about this. Nervous, too, because I want it to be spectacular. If it goes well and supervising adults recommend me to their colleagues it could open up a whole new revenue stream.

I usually lean on a podium, but for this one I’m going to try and stroll around and just talk for the full hour. No notes.

The only thing that could be more brave than talking without notes to 250 8th graders would be talk to them without pants.

I think I’m so excited because I believe I have an opportunity to make a difference with a message that really resonates.

And what is that message?

Choose cheerfulness! I want them to know that most adults confuse emotions with decisions. 

Being cheerful is a decision. So is pessimism.

I believe both the optimist and the pessimist will each be right 50 percent of the time, but the optimist will be cheerful 100 percent of the time while the pessimist will be the dour reverse.

So, sure, this week could suck. The weather could turn nasty, bad news could spring out of Washington, Iraq, Ferguson or right here at home. Arnold Palmer could trip over a putter and shatter a hip.

(Note: Palmer could break both hips and he’d still have hip to spare).

Yes, this week might really, really suck.

But it might not!

Related . . . 

Arnold Palmer gave me noogies on Monday

Yesterday, Arnold Palmer watched me golf

Stones 50 best? ForGRRRRt it

March Madness

Good news from a bad decade (2008)