Sunday re-run: It was a very zombie Thanksgiving

Interested in zombies? You’ll like this post. Not interested in zombies? You’ll like this post. This ran after Thanksgiving weekend when I was feeling a zombie bloat. I thought this evening’s debut of AMC’s “Walking Dead” made re-running this one a good idea. Plus, I think it’s just funny. 

(693 words)

Do zombies ever feel a Thanksgiving bloat like the one I felt? 

“I can’t take one more bite!”

Zombies are either walking around looking for something to eat or engaged in actual eating.

That was me the last four days. The only difference with me was I at least watched a little football. While I was gorging, of course.

I wonder if it was a coincidence AMC’s acclaimed “Walking Dead” zombiefest ended its jiffy little 10-episode run on Thanksgiving weekend, the holiday renown for rapacious eating. 

I’m not a zombie nut. I enjoy “Walking Dead” and consider “Zombieland” one of the funniest movies ever, but I don’t spend a lot of time planning for the zombie apocalypse.

But that doesn’t mean I don’t spend a lot of time thinking about zombies, their diets, their social lives and if I’ll eventually make a good one.

Take this weekend. As zombies are wont to do, I overate. But I have the tactile dexterity to unbutton the top button on my blue jeans to liberate my belly press, which enables me to eat another three plates full of leftovers.

Zombies can’t do that.

I’m surprised how, on the “Walking Dead” at least, you never see a tubby zombie. They all seem zombie svelte. It’s as if dining on pounds of fellow humans helps shed pounds off the diner.

The irony is devastating.

Let’s hope the idea of the zombie diet doesn’t get around at the fitness centers.

Why are they so thin? Could it be all that walking?

I enjoy aimless walking so I’d be cool with that part of being a zombie, much more so than if the show turned out to be the “Jogging Dead.”

Another surprise: I’ve never seen a naked zombie.

When you think about this, it’s remarkable. 

If you go by the “Walking Dead” timeline, these zombies have been walking around dead for four years wearing the same clothes — and that’s another assumption.

I’ve never seen any zombie lore that says zombies try and keep up with the latest fashion or take time to change into fresh duds.

But four years? They should all be naked by now. But of all the zombie hordes I’ve seen I’ve never seen so much as a single a zombie breast or butt cheek.

It’s surprisingly prim for a show that features historically high levels of heinous TV violence.

It’s like the AMC censors say, “Okay, we’re fine with Daryl using a zombie head for a homicidal bowling ball, with cannibal Gareth having a cheerful conversation with the man whose leg he’s eating and, yeah, it’s fine to show closeups of zombies yanking entrails out of screaming humans, but for God’s sake, make sure you re-shoot that scene that showed a glimpse of that exposed zombie nipple! We have standards to maintain!”

It’s true. Zombies never experience wardrobe malfunctions.

And who’s doing all the human barbering in the zombie apocalypse? My friends at the bar look more disheveled — and those are the attorneys!

It’s like Rick enforces grooming standards. Hollywood and zombie apocalypse must be the only places where great hair supersedes all else.

The zombies? Heck, my hair’s messier.

It proves to me that producers are more interested in special FX Emmys than true zombie authenticity.

It won’t be truly authentic to me until you hear one of the cast utter the obvious line, “Dammit. I just stepped in a huge pile of zombie poop!”

So how will I do in a zombie apocalypse?

Well, as a zombie I’ll be fine. It’s all so aimless. It’d be sort of like what I do now, but without all the blogging. Really, it’s like I’ve spent the past six years practicing to become a zombie.

How would I do as a human survivor?

I’ll thrive, I’m sure.

That’s because I’ll adopt the only superhero persona sure to endure. I’ll be silent. I’ll blow around with the wind, practically invisible, but always persisting in the shadows.

I’ll be The Dust!

I’ll survive when all others are doomed to become zombie chow.

Why The Dust?

Because everyone knows true zombies never bite The Dust.

Related . . . 

Zombies at The Pond

Talkin’ Turkey (the Republic of) on Thanksgiving

Sarah Palin & the zombies

Setting the record straight: Lies I told The P-G

A Thanksgiving salute to servicemen & women and Ray Davies

My unending failures to get Pittsburgh a Gene Kelly statue

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There was a homeless guy playing a battered old saxophone smack dab in the middle of Pittsburgh’s Market Square Wednesday when I strolled through.

And I’m making the stereotypical assumption he was homeless. He may just have been an eccentric who likes to dress in shabby clothes to bum money.

No matter. I tossed two bills into his case and shambled on wondering about whether it’d be a good career move for me to learn to play a beat-up old saxophone in the desolate center of one of Pittsburgh’s most iconic locations.

How hard could it be to learn the theme from “The Odd Couple?” And I wouldn’t have to spend so much money on fancy clothes.

The only thing that’s holding me back is my concern that playing the saxophone might be even harder on the fingers than typing and I don’t want to wind up in the emergency room.

Of course, the real question is what the hell is a guy who appears to be homeless doing in the center of one of Pittsburgh’s most premier pieces of real estate when by now there ought to be a spectacular statue of Gene Kelly “Singin’ in the Rain.”

Sunday will mark what would have been Kelly’s 103rd birthday.

This is the fourth consecutive year I’ve in vain lobbied for a Kelly statue in Market Square.

But this is only the first year I’m doing so with access to the ears of an important man who can make this happen.

And, oh, how I wish by that I meant Donald Trump

I daily become more convinced that with Trump as president he’ll make wondrous things happen the way Samantha did when she wiggled her spell-casting nose on “Bewitched.”

Alas, I’m not talking about the dealmaker.

I’m talking about Allegheny County executive Rich Fitzgerald.

I met with him in June at a Pittsburgh function involving city tourism.

I spoke for about two uninterrupted minutes, a virtual facetime eternity with the man who is arguably the most important decision maker in western Pennsylvania.

Here is an idealized version of what I said:

“Look, big shot, you’re helping run one of the world’s most beautiful cities. Scores of prestigious publications are near daily listing Pittsburgh on best-of lists. But you’re failing your constituents by leaving the center of Market Square free of eye-catching art.

“You ought to convince city officials to erect a Gene Kelly “Singing in the Rain” statue in Market Square. That guy and that movie are international superstars beloved around the world. Plus, the symbolism is perfectly Pittsburgh. This city is now in sunshine, but singing in the rain is our bones. Pittsburgh doesn’t quit.”

I boldly went on citing the actual dollar value of pop culture statues around the country and finished with an impassioned plea for him to seize this common sense issue for the betterment of the city we both love.

Know what Fitzgerald did?

He pulled up his zipper, turned to me and said, “How about letting a guy finish taking a piss before you bother him, ya jagoff?”

Actually, it didn’t happen that way at all. I just said it did because I think the idea of me pestering an important public official while he — or she! — is taking a leak is funny.

What actually happened was he was stuffing his face by the dessert table.

I said a more polite version of what’s written above. He nodded, mumbled something about it being a good idea and worthy of consideration.

Then he fled to seek wonky sanctuary amidst his hovering flock of sycophantic toadies.

But he knows I’m right. It’s an obvious winner.

I’ve heard the Kelly’s third wife, (they were married from 1990 until his death in ’96), is opposed and that she may be seeking money before granting her approval.

Well, with all due deference to the widow Kelly, city officials ought to tie the old babe up and and stuff her in some closet.

There is no logical reason for opposing this tribute.

A Gene Kelly “Singin’ in the Rain” statue is an idea whose time has come.

All it needs is a can-do visionary who won’t take no for an answer.

I’d talk to Trump, but I fear the result would be a statue of Trump.

Do something today to help make it happen!

Many metal statues start out with grass roots. 

Related …

Pittsburgh needs a Gene Kelly statue … now! (from ’11)

Knock, knock; Pittsburgh needs a Gene Kelly statue

Pittsburgh landmark defaced by Patriot fans

Me for Pittsburgh mayor

My history of homelessness

Catching up on the Ashley Madison scandal

(628 words)

I want to preempt exposure on Ashley Madison hack lists by announcing my eagerness to cheat.

The randy initiative burst through just last night when I saw hundreds of men and women — kids, too! — doing it right there in the grass.

They were having a ball.

Actually, they had about 50 balls.

Shame-free orgy?

No, they were playing catch on the PNC Park outfield after the Bucs 4-1 win over the Arizona Diamondbacks.

They were doing the kind of shagging that would be a cruel disappoint to Austin Powers.

It looked like so much fun.

I’d never heard news of this splendid promotion. I didn’t know who these happy strangers were or how they got lucky enough to scramble out on the outfield of the most beautiful ballpark in America to toss the ball around.

Playing a game of catch is maybe the second most glorious things two consenting adults can one-on-one do together.

Care to guess what’s first?

I can’t get either Val or my daughters, ages 14 and 9, to play catch with me. So sign me up if there’s ever an Ashley Madison with the tag line: “Life’s short. Play catch with a stranger!”

Of course, I owe it to my readers to take a bold stand on Ashley Madison.

How do I feel about cheating? Am I ever tempted? How would I react if my spouse’s name was released on the cheater list?

You deserve to hear me issue honest answers to these salient questions.

And I vow to provide that candor the instant there’s irrefutable proof my darling wife no longer reads this stupid blog.

Come September, we’ll have been married 19 years, long enough that younger men on the precipice of matrimony have actually asked me for advice, which I freely bestow.

I start these counseling sessions by asking these young romantics the question: “If marriage is so great, how come God is still single?”

Talk about Mr. Right. When it comes to eligible bachelors, even the great Derek Jeter is a distant second.

I don’t think newlyweds understand how little nuance there is in that part of the wedding vows that insist betrothed couples must now forsake all others.

The clause includes precious little wiggle room. You can’t make exceptions if you’re drunk, horny, lonely, feeling scorned, available or looking especially sexy in that pretty new peek-a-boo dress.

It’s why the country music genre is such an enduring money maker.

I think most people get hitched believing in their heart of hearts they’ll never cheat, but if they do, they believe they’re marrying a person who will, of course, be understanding if he or she happens to stumble. This same person — hallelujah — is so divinely faithful he or she would never dream of cheating.

In fact, most people eventually learn they are married to emotional human beings just like themselves, people who will think of severing things more carnal than a relationship if they find out they’ve been cheating. 

Of course, I’m looking forward to reading all the salacious details about the hypocritical family-values celebrities — thank you, Josh Duggar! — but hope our neighbors will be understanding about the human failings of those who slip.

I like it anytime events take a whack at the Puritanical underpinnings upon which so much of America is based.

But there’s bound to be some necessary soul-searching from people who think they can get away with something that means so much to someone they say they love.

If you’re one of those people and are feeling tempted, you’re welcome to get in touch with me. We can hook up.

Bring a baseball and a mitt.

You and I will together enjoy the kind of pastime where getting caught actually makes playing all the more satisfying.

Related . . .

How come there’s no Mrs. God?

What happened when I spent 72 hours handcuffed to Val

I cry over commercials (farewell, Capt’n Jeter!)

A great day for baseball … let’s play 2! Or 3!

I play Centerfield

Jaffre's opens today at Tin Lizzy!

(703 words)

Breaking news: Jaffre’s is open again at the Tin Lizzy! This is great news. They’re open for lunch and dinner starting today (closed Sundays).

The three-bar, four-story building had been without an anchor restaurant for about two months, which means the only thing it’d been without longer was a resident writer.

And what respectable tavern can do without one of those?

Mike Jaffre and his family enjoy great reputations in the area. They’re friendly and present an outstanding menu of affordable upscale dining like Capellini Jaffre, a shrimp and scallop noodle dish served with brandy parmesan sauce. 

This means the building’s premier entree will no longer be Spam.

Let me explain.

The main bar doesn’t open until 7 a.m., but I usually roll into the parking lot at about 6:15.

It takes keys to four locks to get to my third floor office. 

For years, I needed just two keys to run my entire hobo life. Now, I have six. I feel like some kind of half-assed custodian.

So everyday when I walk into my office it’s like the opening sequence to “Get Smart!”

The red key opens the corner door to the Main Street bar. Then there’s a key to a padlocked door separating the bar from Jaffre’s dining room. The blue key opens the door to the hallway stairs that lead past Flapper’s, the second floor martini bar. Then there’s the green key that opens the warped door to my shabby little third floor office.

But the red key is, well, key.

That’s the one that gives me access to everything I’ll ever need the day Val and the kids say they’re fed up with my farts.

There’s a rockin’ jukebox, big screen TVs, kegged and bottled beer, four shelves of high-quality liquor, snacks and lots and lots of Spam.

Yes, I said Spam.

Ah, Spam. So exquisitely downscale savory. I could live for years on all that.

See, the thing about possessing the right key is it not only lets you in, it also gives you the doomsday option of locking everyone else out.

Andy Dufresne understood this in “The Shawshank Redemption” scene where he locked everyone out of the warden’s office and luxuriated himself and the entire prison in amplified opera.

It’s a beautiful moment that ends with angry guards kicking his ass, which is an even more beautiful moment for all of you who prefer old school law-and-order to Mozart’s “Marriage of Figaro.”

My option is more along the lines of an old Dallas Wayne country song: “Crack the Jack and Crank the Hank.

Hey, you can have your desert island fantasy and I have mine.

And that’s something I think about every day I pull that red key out of my pocket. I’m pleased Buck, the owner, trusts me enough to give me keys to the whole shebang, but morally deficient enough to realize that could one day backfire.

In some ways, it already has.

It’s why I contend Buck owes me eight cans of Spam.

The Tin Lizzy is a jackpot of quirk. On the one wall, there’s an ancient wheel of fortune (pictured above). Customers are allowed one free spin a day.

Its ratting sound is a constant backdrop.

It has 180 numbers. Five of them are marked for prizes. One gets you a free drink; one a drink for half-off; one’s an enigmatic free “card,” about which I know nothing; one’s a loser where the spinner has to buy the bartender and Buck a drink.

And one is for a free can of Spam.

I spin that wheel each and every morning while I’m on my way to Door No. 2.

And for eight days in a row my spin has against all odds landed bang on Spam.

At least that’s what I told Buck.

“Can you believe it?” I ask.

He can’t. He calls me a liar.

“Why would anyone lie just to obtain eight cans of Spam?”

He says he doesn’t know and invites me to have a drink while we explore the reasons.

He is my kind of philosopher.

So while my specious Spam haul is in being adjudicated, I’ll at least now have the option for some superb Capellini Jaffre.

I just hope Spam don’t spoil.

Related . . .

My new office!

I’m lovin’ cornhole! Who wants to join me?

Excessive traffic lights driving me to drink

Bird watching in Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood

Zombies at The Pond

My history of drinking at/near work

The #hashtag/tic-tac-toe rivalry

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I’m so old school I always feel like shouting “Paul Lynde to block!” every time I see a hashtag.

I wonder if devotees of tic-tac-toe resent how hashtags have stolen the thunder of one of the world’s oldest games.

Archeologists have unearthed evidence an early version of tic-tac-toe was played in the Roman Empire as far back as 100 B.C.

So it’s certainly conceivable Jesus Christ played tic-tac-toe.

Remember, He roamed the earth centuries before the advent of NFL on-line fantasy leagues and needed something to do to kill time.

It’s also possible, Him being Christ, He was pretty good. He could have been the Johnny Beauregard of His day.

As far as my superficial research can tell, Beauregard is the Babe Ruth of tic-tac-toe.

I googled “tic-tac-toe world champion” and found a 2011 link to a possibly satiric story that said Beauregard defeated nine grandmasters during a world championship held in the basement of a restaurant called Mike’s All-You-Can-Eat BBQ Buffet.

I say possibly satiric because the canon of authentic tic-tac-toe reportage is practically non-existent.

The story said Beauregard is the undisputed champion of the World Tic-Tac-Toe Federation.

The WTTTF!

No prize money is mentioned, but I sense the stakes were far less than they were in what was the most famous tic-tac-toe game ever played. That was the one between Professor Falken and the computer Joshua in the great 1983 Matthew Broderick flick, “War Games.”

In the end, the computer thoughtfully decides against launching World War III when it learns “the only winning move is not to play.”

Imagine that. Thirty-two years ago, computers were advising against computer games.

My how times change.

Same goes for our keyboard symbols.

Remember, hashtag, that most modern of symbols, is still referred to on our most advanced North American smart phones as the “the pound sign.” Elsewhere, it’s the “hash sign.”

Will we one day hear automated phone systems advise us, “For more options press the hashtag sign.”

Sounds awkward.

Why hashtags are called “hash” tags is murky. 

Hash, of course, is an often tasty meal composed of pieces of meat or vegetable cut into small pieces and fried; hash brown potatoes, for example.

But I’ve never seen # on any menu and couldn’t find it anywhere on a menu for an upscale Chicago breakfast restaurant called HASH. No mention of cannabis-based hallucinogens, either.

I guess the symbol is limber enough to support all those varied definitions — pound/number/hashtag — but I predict we’ll soon see keyboards with multiple slashes on hashtags.

The innovation could revolutionize tic-tac-toe the way 3D chess did on the rec dec of the USS Enterprise, which Joshua the computer would obviously prefer to Global Thermal Nuclear War.

It’s a sensible myth that hashtag began its twitter rise January 15, 2009. That was the day Capt. Sully Sullenberger “landed” USAirways Flight 1549 upon the waves of the Hudson River. Twitterists began using #1549.

The plane went down, hashtag took off.

A more likely and verifiable story involves a Bay Area techie who’d grown fed-up with how disorganized Twitter had become. 

And Sunday at precisely 3:25 p.m. hashtag will celebrate its 8th birthday. That’s when Chris Messina tweeted, “How do you feel about using # (pound) for groups. As in #barcamp [msg]?”

Messina later said, “It was one of those things where I had so many haters in the beginning that I thought this thing would never pick up. But, secretly, I sort of felt like, ‘Come on, guys, this is the simplest thing that could work.’”

Two days later, another techie, Stowe Boyd, suggested the # symbol be called “hash” tag because it sounded catchier. 

So Happy 8th Birthday, hashtag!

What will you be when you grow up? You’re future is bright. 

I’m sure you’ll hash it all out.

Related . . .

A short story on dots & periods with some good points

Let’s make the Bible fun to read!

To err is humon; blogs & typos

We  . . .  all . . .  need  . . . some . . . space

RRS: "Oh, Man(dy)! My night with Manilow"

(857 words)

I once took a Mexican girl who barely spoke any English to see U2, an Irish band, in the Dixie town of Nashville.

It was a diversity extravaganza.

It was 1987. I remember meeting her at a party where the music was loud enough to mask our difficulties communicating. I remember doing a lot of smiling and nodding. She was very pretty.

Eager to spend more intimate time in her company, I told her I had two tickets to see U2 on “The Joshua Tree” tour. Did she like U2?

“Si!”

I don’t know if the party music and my attraction to her had exaggerated my impressions of her English, but whatever fluency she had vanished the instant I opened the car door for her.

In fact, the only word of English I remember her speaking the entire evening was at the very end when I asked if I could kiss her good night.

“No!”

I felt used.

It was the second time in six years a pair of tickets to a popular concert left me feeling that way.

And while U2 was a multi-cultural affair, the previous one was anything but. In fact, I remember it as the whitest night of my entire life.

Yes, in 1981 I attended a Barry Manilow concert at Pittsburgh’s Civic Arena.

My date was my father.

Manilow was here again on Friday for a well-reviewed show that the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette called “an escape into some kind of soft pop time warp.”

He played, “Old Songs,” “Can’t Smile Without You,” “Even Now,” “Trying to Get the Feeling Again,” “I Write the Songs,” and a score of other catchy hits from the 1970s.

And I love them all.

My musical bona fides are unimpeachable. My first album was Elton John’s “Goodbye Yellow Brick Road.” My first concert, Joe Ely opening for Tom Petty. I rocked back then to Seger, the Stones, Dire Straits and the Kinks. Still do.

But when Dad was driving us to early morning hockey practice, we’d often listen to Manilow. Had any other lip-reading motorists been paying attention, they would have spied us singing, “At the Copa! Copacabana! The hottest spot north of Havana!”

They were good times. My old man was the greatest.

But I was cool enough at the time to know Manilow wasn’t.

That’s why I was shocked to come home on Thanksgiving break from my freshman year at Ohio University to see that Dad had bought his young hockey fan two tickets -- not to a Pittsburgh Penguins game -- but to the Barry Manilow concert.

I still wonder if he was cunning enough to foresee exactly how it would all play out.

I remember sitting by the phone and coming up blank trying to think of the girl I could ask that wouldn’t respond with hysterical giggles. Manilow’s not exactly a great first-date icebreaker.

I certainly couldn’t ask any of the guys I know. The would all laugh me off the planet.

Well, all but one of them would.

And he was at that moment sitting in his recliner across the room immersed in “Bowling for Dollars.”

Uh, Dad, I was thinking . . .

“Sure! I’d love to go!”

There were many, many other male couples there that night, but I’ll bet out of the 17,532 Pittsburgh Fanilows, we were the only father/son duo.

Dad didn’t care one bit. In fact, he was euphoric.

Leaving the building, he kept gushing about how much he loved Manilow and how it was one of the greatest nights of his life.

I wish I’d have anticipated that reaction when he’d parked the car. See, Dad hated to pay premium prices for parking. This wasn’t a problem at many suburban venues.

But at sold-out Civic Arena shows that meant parking deep in the crime-ridden neighborhood known as The Hill District. That’s where Dad found a freebie spot amidst the abandoned vehicles and burned-out tenements.

I remember looking in the shadows for parolees ready to pounce. It was late on a school night, but no one was sleeping.

I know this because I kept seeing them look out their windows to see the middle-aged white man bouncing down the sidewalk singing:

“And it’s Daybreak! If you wanna believe!

It can be Daybreak! Ain’t no time to grieve!

Said it’s Daybreak! If you’ll only believe!

And let it shine! Shine! Shine! All around the world!”

As I said, I believe there’s a place for Manilow and his music. I just didn’t believe it was at midnight in the Hill District in 1981.

Of course, maybe I’m letting my prejudices get the better of me.

Maybe those young hoodlums were transformed by the sound of my Dad warbling Manilow’s greatest hits.

Maybe they set down their crack pipes and said, “Damn! You know, that old white dude’s right. It CAN be Daybreak!”

Whether or not it happened that way, I can not say.

But of this I’m certain:

If my date that night had been anyone other than my own Dad, I’ll bet I’d have gotten laid.

Related . . .

My 25 most played songs

Turn the Page: A Bob Seger salute

Cool/uncool music judged by . . . me!

“Hey Hey Johnny,” songs for dead celebs

Stones 50 best? ForGRRRt about it

For Boss fans only: A Springsteen career retrospective

My new favorite word: Abbey-lubber

(654 words)

My $295 on-line subscription to the Oxford English Dictionary is maybe my favorite indulgence. I revel in word origins, obscure definitions and saucy quotes from heroes like Twain, Churchill and Dorothy Parker.

And I love having the OED’s word of the day zipped straight to my in-box.

It is through that feature I’ve stumbled upon words like cwtch, honeyfuggle, ballyhooly and rumgumption. I click save and vow to maneuver these lexicogical delights into my daily conversation.

Alas, my noble intentions exceed my acuity. 

Because the very moment after I’ve read the definitions is the very moment I begin to forget them. Gone. Just like that.

What the heck is a honeyfuggle? (it’s a deception).

Does rumgumption involve an innate fearlessness about ordering rum? (no, it means shrewdness).

It’s probably for the best. Nobody likes a smarty pants. 

And who knows what would happen if I told the old neighbor lady she has a nice, tidy cwtch and she is unaware the Old English word referred a cubbyhole and is more familiar with the word’s more pornographic derivations.

Why, she’d beat the holy ballyhooly (Hell, derived from the raucous Irish village of the same name) out of me.

That’s why I was delighted yesterday when the word of the day was one I’ll never forget.

The only problem is finding an appropriate opportunity to deploy it.

The word is “abbey-lubber.”

It is from 1528 and is defined as a “derogatory term for a monk living in idleness and self-indulgence.”

I guess I never heard the word before because it’s been surpassed by a more modern derivative.

Blogger!

I’ve, of course, heard of landlubbers, a salty sailor’s contemptuous word for those who dwell on terra firma. You’d think there’d have to be ocean lubbers, too, or maybe they disappeared in 1966 when “McHale’s Navy” sunk.

It wasn’t until I saw abbey-lubber that I realized lubber was so limber.

It turns out lubber describes any big clumsy, stupid fellow who wallows in idleness.

So there can be bar-lubbers, office-lubbers, toll booth-lubbers. In fact, there’s lubbers everywhere you look.

I just never thought they’d be in our abbeys, too.

Monk seems a rather sedentary calling. My understanding of abbey life, shallow as it is, leads me to believe it is mostly free of frenzy.

I don’t think they even allow ping pong.

So how do you differentiate an abbey-lubber from an industrious monk. Does one have an anatomical six pack, the other a hops-based one? 

I guess the most famous monk is Friar Tuck, the jovial companion of Robin Hood. He is depicted as having a mere halo of hair and always with a prosperous gut — more abbey-blubber than abbey-lubber.

That means the second most famous monk, to me, would be “Monk.”

The Tony Shalhoub show ran on USA Network from 2002-2009 and featured Shalhoub playing eccentric detective Adrian Monk.

I remember Val and I enjoying the show, but not so much we’d devote any of our TV-lubbing to repeated viewing.

So I may never encounter a true abbey-lubber, but you can bet you’re going to see me applying lubber any time I see it lazily rearing its sleepy bed head.

Because true lubbers aren’t don’t just reside in our monastic abbeys.

They’re in our bowling alleys, our taverns and strolling through our shopping malls.

And in just two weeks they’ll be plunked in front of our nation’s TVs enjoying the kickoff of the 2015 NFL season.

Are you ready for some lubbing?

I say don’t shun our national urge to lub. I say embrace it.

Start this weekend by doing absolute nothing. Summer’s almost over. Enjoy a picnic. Watch some baseball. Lay on your back in the grass and stare up at the clouds.

There’s a little bit of lubber in all of us.

This is America.

Lub it or leave it.

Related . . .

Happy 50th Birthday to these words!

My new $295 dictionary

Tom Sawyer ejaculates! And when word meanings change

Searching for Mr. Stupid

Word quest