2017: Looking forward to better days

(671 words)

I’m so fond of my attorney I spent a good bit of 2016 contemplating various crimes just so I could enjoy more confidential time with him.

First, I wanted to kill Wendy, the malignantly vapid real estate agent who botched the sale of my Mom’s South Hills condo.

The story of my involvement with Wendy, the months of work we did to fix the place up to her dictates, and the money her bungling — either deliberate or through native stupidity — cost my Mom is a story too epic for jiffy blog disposal.

No, that story will be relived in full detail when I write a book about who all’s in hell and cast Wendy as Satan’s wife.

And if Wendy is Mrs. Satan then that means even for Satan hell will be hell.

But my attorney said a long murder trial — he was confident of my acquittal — would cut into our precious bar time so he counseled against killing Wendy.

He offered a judicious alternative.

 Kill her reputation!

I sent what I hope was a devastatingly thorough expose of her incompetence to the building manager at Virginia Mansions on Greentree Road. This woman loves my mother, is fond of me and will likely weigh my opinion before ever recommending Wendy of Keller Williams Realty ever again.

So I lost a whole summer with my family doing work with my friend Mark at Mom’s old place. The only good thing to come out of it was I got to spend a whole summer doing work with Mark at Mom’s old place (see Mark link).

Beating up on 2016 seems to be very popular this week. I get it. I had intended to headline this post: “Good riddance, 2016: Worst Year Ever!”

It’s true. It really sucked. There was the whole Mom thing, persistent money shortfalls and anticipated career breakthroughs were delayed.

And, damn, Arnold Palmer was proven to be mortal. Didn’t see that coming.

Figures, too, 2016 was a damn leap year so we had to endure a whole extra day of awful.

So, boo, 2016! Boo! Boo! Boooo!

But I always seek perspective and understand what sucks for me is likely someone else’s idea of their greatest year ever, particularly if that hypothetical is a blogger in, say, Aleppo.

In some ways, 2016 was a fantastic year. My Tin Lizzy office became a popular party station, I earned effusive cheers for my speaking engagements in places as distant as Nebraska, and I was elated by the euphoric reaction to my new book.

My wife still loves, my kids still love me and the stupid dog doesn’t pee on my foot with the regularity he once did. I have so many good friends to brighten even the darkest days.

I imagine you can check most of those boxes, too.

That’s a pretty good year.

And no matter how you look at it, you have to give 2016 this much.

It only has two days left! Even the very worst years succumb to term limits.

Because of that, I’ve decided to treat the New Year like the Earth birthday it actually is.

I do this so I can use a nifty line I’ve until now reserved for birthdays of Facebook friends.

I’ve had friends ask me if it’s an original or if I thieved it from Hallmark.

They should know me better than that. I’d rob banks before I’d plagiarize another writer.

And if 2017 doesn’t yield better results, felonious larceny will become a career option.

The line …

“Happy Birthday, Planet Earth! May tomorrow be the first day of your best year yet!”

It applies as optimistically to a 4 year old as it does to one who’s turning 2,017.

The “yet” is key. It hints at even better years to come.

I hope that’s what’s in store for you, me, and the whole planet.

We’re all older, savvier and now know it’s wise to avoid Wendy.

So Happy New Year!

Welcome 2017!

As for 2016, you can take a flying leap year.

Related …

Singing a song of praise for Mark Slagle

Moving Mom to Latrobe: the big picture

My day in court

A 2016 blog sampler with links to share

Three of my most popular and well-received posts from 2016 were heartfelt eulogies to dead friends.

So if you’re a friend of mine and you happen to expire before me, rest in peace knowing I’ll be happy to boost my readership by opining on your life and death.

The most newsworthy death was that of Arnold Palmer. My story in two days became one of my top 10 all-timers and was widely quoted in social media and in a few mainstream publications. I was pleased because I sensed the story would be widely read so the stakes felt high, well, high for a no-account/no pay blog like mine at least. I was particularly pleased to learn friends at the Palmer offices told me mine was one from among the thousands of global eulogies they chose to .

We were saddened but only a little surprised to learn of the death of Jerry Palmer, Arnold’s brother, just 55 days later. Here, again, I was touched by the compliments of family members who reached out to tell me they were buoyed by my recollections of their loved ones.

It may surprise those who knew either of the Palmers, but the death of our good friend Dow Carnahan may have shaken the community most of all. Dow was a beloved and respected local radio announcer who bestowed Latrobe with a grace and eloquence worthy of far more populace places. And, man, he was just a great guy. I tried to craft my thoughts on his sudden passing with great care and heart because that’s the way Dow did everything. We miss him so much.

Amidst these traumas we had — yippee! — the most tumultuous political season of our lives. And our town became Ground Zero for the Trump movement when an enthusiast transformed a nearby rental property into what became known around the world as the Trump House. I am in the hometown minority in that I find Trump obnoxious. So taking a side in the debate was potentially risky. There was a chance I’d alienate friends and readers. But I often feel obliged to weigh in on controversies just because to do otherwise feels cowardly. I think this post succeeded in that it got my points across without disrespecting those who disagreed. I’d like to thank each of them for both being open-minded to my views and not shooting me during the Happy Hour. At least, not yet.

Understand, it always pains me to feel compelled to write on any topic that might sadden or unsettle even one reader. It makes me so happy — and I hear it all the time — when readers tell me the whole reason they read the blog is to feel better. So my favorites will always involve offbeat silliness, like this October one that explains that the Wazoo & Ying Yang are NOT Chinese rivers.

I guess if I was restricted to one topic it wouldn’t be food, booze, politics or journalism or books even. It would be music. I like to write about music because it engages so many readers who have real passion. I found that out in January when I wrote this one about the day I told our 9th grader why The Stones are better than The Beatles.

This one about Erin Andrews drew a lot of readers and positive comment. Lots of people liked my take on what I’d say to her if she were my daughter.

I strive for originality, for topics and humor you can’t find anywhere else. I often fall short. I thought this one was hit the originality mark. It asks what you’d do if you were forced to decide between taking a pill that ended your need to sleep or one that ended your need to eat.

Putting a humorous twist on obscure history always feels like a blog job well done — and I was careful to ensure “blog job” was not marred by an unfortunate typo. I was fascinated to learn about Eddie Klep, who broke the color barrier by being the first white man to play in the Negro Leagues. 

I try not to write too much about anyone topic, but I could write at least once a week about my Mom. This was a particularly topical year with us moving her out to live nearer to us. This one is from February when I felt compelled to tell her I was quitting the imaginary job I told her I had at a local hardware store.

It is likely to my detriment I’m not even more obnoxious about hawking my books on the blog. But I think everyone’s well-aware I’m eager to sell my books, “Last Baby Boomer” in particular, and do not need the fact shoved down their throats. So when I do write about the books I try to do so tangentially, as I did in this one from earlier this month about someone commenting my book should weigh more.

I intend to write tomorrow about what a crapfest 2016 was for me, at least, and for all the people who’ll now have the number etched on their tombstones, but that goes without saying.

I summarize blog highlights here and now in the hopes you’ll share this with friends who might benefit from an overview of what readers might expect when they check out www.EightDaysToAmish.com

Thank you — each of you — for even taking a moment in ’16 to check out the blog. I’m very gratified by all the interest and hope you’ll help make ’17 a gangbuster year for this feisty little bugger.

And I mean the blog, not me.

December Tweets of the Month

It makes little sense, but I still get a real charge out of coming up with funny tweets or ones that hint at submerged wisdom. Plenty of both in this month’s @8days2Amish, I think.

Upcoming posts: Tomorrow, “Good riddance, 2016!” And Saturday my annual mind-numbing compilation of the year’s best tweets.

Thanks for checking in!

• I’m still wrestling with the idea of having to earn a living. Being born entitled me to living and, by God, I intend to truly live.

• I have to imagine a country named Togo has really great take-out food.

• Unforeseen climate change consequence is polar bears will soon need row boats. It's going to be toughest on row boat salespeople. 

• I’d take high road more often but I always get hassled by cops whenever they see a car as crappy as mine in nice neighborhoods.

• If I were in charge of adding automatronic Trump at Disney Hall of Presidents, I'd have him admiring size of own hands during Lincoln speech

• I wonder if temperature in heaven is individualized or if some old ladies complain it's always too cold & bundle up in sweaters.

• I predict 2017 will be the year we all simultaneously learn if a sitting president can appoint himself to the U.S. Supreme Court.

• I remain optimistic one day my ship's going to come in. I'm just fearful when it does, it'll be a leaky one-seat row boat with just one busted oar.

• As of today, I'm resuming my practice of shouting, "Blucher!" moments before the horse whinny on "Sleigh Ride!"

• I’d like to ask Ben Carson what HUD will do when climate change renders Santa's North Pole home uninhabitable

• The people who are most likely to approach me with an idea for my next book are the people who are least likely to have ever read a book.

• I just positively verified the conspiracy theory that the truth is nothing but a rumor.

• Question for wordsmiths: Is it better to be practical or better to be pragmatic? The answer is ... it's better to be just a wee bit buzzed.

• Told daughter, 16, moment I no longer make her laugh is moment I stop trying to be funny. Her reaction means I have about 8 mins.

• I wish I were a famous Hollywood director so one day I could shoot a scene with Robert Redford driving a red Ford. 

• ”Too ugly." "Too fat." "Looks stupid." What is it about Christmas tree shopping that turns my daughters into Donald Trump at beauty pageant?

• If I were God there'd be no war, no injustice & every snowflake would be an identical smiley face. Who am I kidding? There'd be no snow! 

• Note to gift-buyers: The very best stocking stuffers will always be feet. 

• Understand as you go through life that the people who are often most difficult to love are the ones who need love most.

• I’m convinced the world won't be whole until everyone either has or is a doting grandparent.

• This will betray my warped priorities, but if my house is ever in bad earthquake how long will it be before I can safely open a beer? 

• If I were any cooler the Weather Channel will be forced to factor my existence into all its climate change forecasts.

• What should they call those of us who prefer real, live Christmas trees to artificials? Saps!

• I like it when people do good deeds and choose to remain anonymous. Saves me the indignity of having to kiss a lot of ass. 

• Headline says "Trump tells Vietnamese PM he wants stronger ties." Does he mean diplomacy or does he think Trump tie quality slipping?

• It no longer makes sense telling anyone to go to hell. Sooner or later, hell comes to all.

• Sometimes I envy crustaceans. They never need a petty excuse to feel crabby. 

• I figured out a reason why Trump relies on his kids and not a conventional braintrust. It's because Trump doesn't trust brains. 

• “Oh, there's no place like phone for the holidays!” (with picture of family staring at phones)

• The idea behind "pursuit of happiness" misleads. Find a comfy enough chair & pursuit becomes unnecessary. Happiness'll finds you.

• I’d like to see how a Geiger counter reacts if you take one to a Geiger family reunion.

• Discussion of North Korean tyrant continues to confuse me. I thought Rudolph was the deer leader.

• Val thought “Manchester by the Sea” movie a tragedy because of all the bad things happening to people. I thought it a comedy because all the bad things were happening to Patriot fans.

• I wonder if the Bethlehem bullies ever taunted Jesus with the old "So you think you're better than me?" line.

• How come the only time you hear of a damsel is when she's in distress? I hope '17 is the year I see a damsel in, say, a laundromat.

• I’ve never once seen a white supremacist who's made me, a fellow white, feel the least bit superior.

• World’s greatest sales people must work for Spam. Think of the intrinsic hurdles they must overcome just to get calls/e-mails returned.

• Never in my wildest dreams thought I'd say this, but I’m starting to pray Trump calls George W. Bush for advice on how to run the country.

Related …

December Tweets of the Month, ’15 

December Tweets of the Month, ’14

December Tweets of the Month, ’13

Retards, pyramids of faggots & how meanings change

(672 words)

It was about a month ago when our 5th grader asked me to assist with vocabulary words.

She needed to add to a list of words that began with “re-.”

My list included “refine,” “repeat,” “return,” and a few other standard mundanities.

Then I shocked her with a word she’d been instructed was bad, bad, bad. I could tell by her reaction the word was way worse than the ones she hears me and Mommy blurt out in traffic or when the bank machine consumes an ATM card.

The word was “retard.”

I kind of knew she’d react to hearing me say “retard,” but I like the word retard and am dismayed it’s being blacklisted.

I explained the word’s original meaning is to delay, slow or hinder.

It’s a great useful word in that context because so much of the world needs retarding.

We need to retard our use of social media, the coarsening of our interactions, and our knee-jerk acceptance as truth all the fake news.

We have materials that retard flames, car devices that retard dangerous acceleration, and medicines that retard the spread of disease.

Of course, and I know this, those are the reasons our use of retard is being retarded.

It’s being used to describe mentally slow children. It was that way when I was a kid and it was okay to describe those children as retarded.

Then the bullies took it over. It’s today used by meanies like Ted Nugent to describe anyone with whom he disagrees. 

I’ve raised my daughters to believe there are no bad words. There are only bad times to say some words.

I revel in words and want our girls to use colorful language to describe how people act, but not who they are.

So it’s okay if one of them describes Ted Nugent as an asshole, but not as a German/Irish asshole.

I want them to judge people on how they behave, which is a decision, not how they were born, how they look, etc., which none of us can help.

And I want them to appreciate how nimble our language can be.

It’s why we just spent the bright season donning our gay apparel to sing Christmas carols by the warmth of burning faggots.

The word gay dates back to the 14th Century when it was used to connote merriment and joy.

You could back then enjoy a gay old time — a yabba-dabba-doo time! — without risking sexual insinuations.

Gay didn’t become slang for homosexual until the 1930s. 

To avoid controversy, our nightly newscasts primly substitute offensive language with sanitizing codes we need to decipher. 

I heard one recently say some neighborhood mayhem was instigated when one man called a homosexual “the f-word.”

I was left to conclude the f-word was faggot and not the other often incendiary f-word.

Funny, but this discussion of words came at a time when one of history’s great wordsmiths provided me with an indelible example of how words change. It was Winston Churchill in his excellent book, “History of the English-Speaking Peoples,” 1956.

In his history of Joan of Arc (1412-1431), he in vivid detail recounts her demise with this incredibly colorful description:

“High upon the pyramid of faggots the flames rose toward her and the smoke of doom wreathed and curled.”

That was written just 60 years ago. In that brief time, the term “pyramid of faggots,” has gone from a description of a bundle of sticks to something that conjures, I guess, a troupe of homosexual acrobats.

Please don’t mistake this as a summons for even less courtesy in describing people with whom we differ.

I believe honesty without tact is like brain surgery without anesthesia: the operation could cure, but the complications can kill.

I believe people should use less of one n-word and act more like another.

I believe everyone should be nicer.

And I hope you’re wearing something gay that retards the fire if you ever find yourself stuck up atop of a pyramid of flaming faggots.

Related …

Tom Sawyer ejaculates! And how word meanings change

Dipshit (and me!) turn 50 this year!

Searching for Mr. Stupid

Word Quest: My own personal zeitgust

My new $295 dictionary

Boxed wine for Mom on Boxing Day

(702 words)

All I know about Boxing Day I learned from a 1981 episode of M*A*S*H that featured Col. Potter swapping duties with Corp. Klinger, an idea based on what was said to be a British military tradition.

I don’t know whether tradition has anything to do with boxed wines, but my Mom needed wine so I figured getting her another box of Peter Vella’s White Zinfandel on Boxing Day could be a new tradition so that’s just what I did.

In case any of you are wine snobs, I believe the vintage was, er … March!

It was $17.05. The box said its wine bladder holds 36 5-ounce glasses.

I wouldn’t want this to degenerate into one of those mine-is-bigger-than-yours debates, but how much does your wine bladder hold?

Her doctors say Mom’s something of miracle because she’s 84, is in perfect physical health and takes no medication. Nothing.

She just drinks a lot of Peter Vella white zinfandel. She probably has four or five glasses a day.

In fact, I’m thinking of seeking some kind of endorsement deal where she did Peter Vella white zinfandel commercials, but sold them as some sort of tonic, which is I guess what the stage show quacks used to do in the Old West.

The only problem I foresee is Mom would have trouble remembering her lines. Heck, she’ll have trouble remembering what she had for lunch today two hours after its been consumed.

It’s odd because my family will remember what she had for lunch 25 years from now.

Chicken tenders.

She is the picture of physical health on a diet that is almost all wine and chicken tenders.

Really, someone should study her while they can. She has dementia, which sounds dreadful.

But I wish I could infect about 80 percent of adult Americans with what she has.

Because she is unbelievably sweet. She makes Fred Rogers look like a sourpuss.

So her dementia can at times make me crazy.

I figure God adds 18 months to her life every time I respond to her sweetness with sarcasm.

I took her to the dentist last week — the adventure could be the plot of my next book — and asked if she wanted to stop someplace for lunch.

“Yeah! Let’s go to McDonald’s and get some chicken tenders!”

I told her I’d take her to McDonald’s, but they didn’t have tenders: “They only serve nuggets.”

She asked when they stopped serving chicken tenders.

“To my knowledge, they’ve never served chicken tenders. It’s always been nuggets”

She asked me five times in the next 10 minutes when they stopped serving chicken tenders.

I answered with patient sincerity four times in a row, but the fifth time I said they stopped serving chicken tenders when studies revealed they were causing forgetfulness in senior citizens.

Bless her heart, she laughed. 

I’ve been through so many roles with this wonderful woman, now in such obvious mental decline.

I was her baby, her buddy, her little rascal. I was the father of her grandchildren, her assistant, her cheap labor and a shoulder she’d cry on. For the last eight years I’ve been her primary caretaker, an odd role responsibility for someone so irresponsible in his own life.

I think my main role now is another oddity.

I’m her designated driver.

If there’s anything she loves more than wine and chicken tenders it is going for long rides in the country.

Since September, she’s lived just five minutes from me. She’s living independently in Latrobe. We’ve unplugged her stove, have her over for meals near daily and are nearby when she gets confused about why the TV’s disobeying the remote.

It sometimes takes me an hour to drive those five minutes.

She loves looking at Christmas lights.

Some may criticize me for not trying to reduce her wine consumption or add nutrients to her diet.

They think her tippling is somehow sinful.

I promise I’ll take the necessary steps the instant she begins to appear either less healthy or less happy.

Until then, she’ll remain a delightful combination of silly and sweet, a confused joy to be around.

Sort of punch drunk on Boxing Day.

Related …

Moving Mom to Latrobe: The Big Picture

How to kill your mother (with love)

Mom’s making crazy contagious by a nose

Mom’s sad decline

Mom struggles with new remote

Yesterday was the best Halloween ever

Brownie points: confessions of a bad son