is this my best line?

 My friend Scott Levin told he thinks this the funniest line I’ve ever written …

"If most men are being honest --  a big "if" -- we'd admit to seeing a lot of ourselves in Ken while aspiring to see just a little of ourselves in Barbie.”

Is he correct? Do you recall a better one or do they fade from memory right away?

What about these? Hope you like 'em all!

--  <<  >>  --

• Adventure tourism will take an extreme turn when scientists perfect heat-resistant vehicles & rec gear that’ll be able to withstand the temperatures on the surface of the sun. Solar visas won’t be granted until applicant can prove he or she has requisite amount of sunscreen SPF 9.999,000,000,000,000. Warning: You might want to think twice before accepting an offer to play “Shirts vs. Skins” beach volleyball 

• So much of writing isn’t writing at all. It is instead the iron-willed destruction of inarticulate, artless sentences you mistakenly thought was writing when you composed your crappy first draft.

• Limitless learning potential. Confronts every challenge with aggression. Compromise viewed as weakness. Prone to using catastrophic weaponry when confronted with alternative progressive theories. History’s most efficient killing machine. Take a bow, Mankind! You’re nature’s Artificial Intelligence v.1.0!

• A good friend will tell you all about their tattoos, even the ones the public cannot see. A really good friend will tell you all about their scars, especially the ones the public cannot see.

• Everyone says the inevitably robot takeover will be peaceful as long as we imbue in AI robots the values of empathy, compassion and the value of every human life. Right because that’s exactly what we’ve been doing with our darling children for generations and the world is just in such great shape.

• I have a theory we could end world hunger if we in America ceased competitive eating contests and figured out how to fax surplus hot dogs to hungry people with really sophisticated fax machines.

• A shortage of money, goods or other tangible items is a deficit. A shortage of sarcastic, egotistical waterfowl certain to be outsmarted by a wily rabbit is a Daffy-cit.

• How would it impact his legacy and place in pop culture if Bob Dylan remained Bob Dylan in every way except instead of singing like Bob Dylan he sang like Susan Boyle? For one, I don't think The Wilburys would have had him.

• Crackdown is such a thuggish word. There’s a crackdown on recreational drugs. There is a crackdown on women wearing skimpy clothing to the office. And there’s a crackdown on party noise after midnight.. Every where pettiness reigns, boom, there’s another crackdown. It’s time we usurp the very definition of crackdown. I propose we all begin using crackdown to describe sleep posture. So if someone asks how you slept last night, the response could be, “Crack down.”

• Technology is our greatest uniter. Everyone exposed to it either swears by or at it.

• Line from the romance novel I'll never write: "Will you let me swim in your oh-so-blue eyes if I promise not to pee in your pool?”

• The Biblical idea of Pearly Gates is charming but incomplete. I believe in heaven there are pearly fences, pearly utility poles -- even pearly manhole covers. There is just a surplus of pearly construction materials.

• It saddens me that my self-awareness about the topic is so high that wnen my daughter said my hair looked nice, I blurted out, "Which one?”

• I dreamt I died and was being evaluated for Heavenly admission and  the 1st thing they did was show a lavish compilation of me helping people. It lasted 12 hours! After it was over, I started for the door marked, “Heaven.” As I reached out for the door knob, a voice said, “Not so fast. Now we have to show the film of every time you failed to do anything that would help extinguish the flames of human misery.” I asked how long this one lasted. “Let’s just be glad we have eternity.”

• “Cool Hand Luke” is maybe my all-time favorite movie. Today during what might have been my 10,000th viewing, I noticed something unsettling: A 1967 movie about a Southern prison camp/road gang has not one African-American in the cast of 48 inmates. What were producers thinking? Sophisticated movie goers wouldn’t accept the idea that an all-white Southern jury could possibly find a black man guilty?

• I know men who've driven women into the arms of another man. I know women who've done the same to men. What's surprising, given the reliability and convenience of the service, I've never heard of someone who's been Ubered there.

• We’re proud of our first responders here and admire their commitment. Still, that doesn’t mean there aren’t some complaints when our holiday parades are choked with dozens and dozens of firetrucks and other emergency vehicles ensuring the parade in the hot sun will take up to 2 hours. Well, I have a solution sure to satisfy everyone. Have all the firetrucks you want, but insist they run the entire route as if it were they were responding to an actual emergency. Top speeds. No brakes. Sure, there will be wrecks and injuries, but that would turn it into a showcase for EMTs. It could be a competition!

My nearly 2 hours with world's most sadistic barber

(671 words)

I’m so resigned to the cruel realities of male pattern baldness that when my daughter said my hair looked nice, I said, “Which one?”

So normally I lack the impetus — not to mention the hair — to write about my coif But after what happened to me at the Ye Olde Barber Shoppe in Duck, N.C., I feel compelled. 

We were on the Outer Banks when I decided I needed a haircut. The decision was based on pure whimsy. I could go the rest of my life and not “need” another haircut.

But I find barber shops are great places to absorb local culture, sports banter and other topics appealing to a sophisticate like me, albeit a sophisticate still on a quest to learn the perfect fart joke.

It was appropriate here  because my time at the Ye Olde BSer really stunk.

Had I checked Yelp I would have known this and gone elsewhere. Here’s just one customer review:

This place is awful. The experience was hands down the worst customer service I have ever encountered. The owner/ barber took no less than 7 personal phone calls, while busy, and while cutting hair. He also was very, very pessimistic about everything. Everything was about how shitty everything is. He hated everything. He talked about shaving the eyebrows off of customers he didn’t like. I heard that and said bye-bye. I’d had enough.”

My experience:

Ignoring the “Let’s Go Brandon!” flag in the window, I walked in and took a seat. I was third in line. It was 2:15 pm. I learned the barber’s name was “Coooter.” Five minutes after I sat down, an elderly gentleman came hobbling into the shop. He’d left his walker in the car. I jumped out of my chair and rendered assistance. He took my arm and I led him to a vacant seat. I mistakenly thought my gallantry would earn me some good will.

Like the Yelp reviewer, I sat there as Cooter spewed hatred for everything that could be described with a noun. He hated minorities. He hated government, gays, foreigners, etc. It was all couched in an aw-shucks, good ‘ol boy, I’m-just-tellin’-it-like-it-is banter where everyone’s in  on the joke.

When after an hour, it was my turn, he asked a standard ice breaker: “Where you from?” I told him Pittsburgh because it’s not only the truth, I’ve found it to be perfectly safe

In my experience, Pittsburgh and Pittsburghers enjoy a great reputations around the country. Pittsburgh is very neutral. It’s not NYC or, thank God, Boston.

It was the wrong answer. He leaned in so close I could feel his beard tickling my ear lobe. “So you’re not only a Yankee, you’re a damn Yankee.”

I had no idea what that meant, but it sure sounded sinister. 

Describing the hair cut as harrowing  would be an exaggeration. But I’ve been in dentist chairs where I’ve felt less apprehensive. Let’s call it hairowing

Toward the end of the nearly 45-minute ordeal he put me in a sort of headlock, held me steady and said, “I hope you enjoyed your education.” Then I felt the razor rake the back of my neck. It stung when he slapped on the aftershave.

“Just a little kiss to remember me by.”

He said it was $25. I paid it, happy to leave with both ears still attached. It was 4 p.m. I’d been there an hour and 45 minutes.

Later at the beach, Val noticed my neck had a pinkish hue, one that corresponded to the bloody stain tainting my snazzy beach shirt.

That was Cooter’s “kiss.” The sirt would need dry cleaning.

I’ve always considered myself a man of reason. Not rash or flighty. I think things through and settle firmly on a steadfast position. I’m for the most part a social progressive with an unflappable belief in the goodness of my fellow man/woman/he/she/them/their blahbidy blahbidy blah …

But all it took was one “kiss” from Cooter and I’d become a real redneck.

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Tweets of the Month

 

• As a proponent of "make everyday something festive," I was a pioneer promoter for "Christmas in July" (and August, and September and etc ...). Today I told my daughter to quit the summer job, drop out of school and devote her every waking moment to composing 12 Juneteenth in July carols that'll really capture the essence of this great new holiday. 'cause when was the last time you heard a really rockin; Juneteenth carol? So much remains to be explored about this exciting new holiday. Merry Juneteenth everyone!

• Daughter is expressing interest in getting a facial piercing. That is her decision. My opinion is unsought or disregarded. I told her she can do what she wants. “But know this,” I said. “For every piercing, every tattoo marring of your darling appearance, I vow to get the exact same procedure or replica tattoo done on my wrinkled old ass. And if you think you’re embarrassed by my Dad jeans just wait til you get a load on my Dad Speedo.”

• It’s not uncommon to hear bickering couples contend one or the other is putting "words in my mouth." Let that phrase be a cue to romantic detour from hostilities and begin putting things other than words in one another's mouths. Say a piece of candy. Or an ear lobe.

• I know, I know, there are far more pressing matters concerning the issue, but I do a slow burn every time I hear a newscaster call it "an out-of-control wildfire." All wildfires are out of control. That's why we don't call 'em tame fires!

• I was given a tight deadline. Tough to meet. I asked editor if she had any wiggle room. “You bet! You got yourself some wiggle room!” I love wiggle room! All hail wiggle room! I swear, the next home is going to have a wiggle room …

• News that PGA Tour bosses are grabbing their ankles to accommodate murderous Saudis has me furious at all the times my parents dragged us to Sunday school to memorize the gospels when the life lesson from the shady deal can be boiled down to three jiffy words: "Greed is good.”

• Those who think differently, defy convention and act without regard to the scolding opinion of others are individuals. To live otherwise is to risk becoming an UNdividual.

• If I ever have a role in naming another child, I'm going to argue we name the kid with Unisex name, "Guess." Every introduction would reveal so much about the person. Do they get angry or do they chuckle?

"Hi! I'm Amy! What's your name?"

"Guess."

"C'mon. Really. What's your name?"

"Guess."

• I have no idea how they're doing it. War in Ukraine. Uprisings on the streets of Moscow. Economic tumult. Civil unrest. With all that going on, how on earth does the Russian leadership find time to address priority issues like keeping transgender kids from reading all the books they're busy banning?

• Nerve-rattling headlines declare dozens of Moscow war lords fighting for supremacy. Now, I don't contend to know much about matters either military or spiritual and I'm no gambler, but when I read those headlines I think, okay, I'll see all your war lords and raise you just one peace Lord.

• My superiority complex is so complex it can make sense of the implausibility that a man with accomplishments and results as meager as mine can feel superior to MDs, CEOs and people who merely root for teams from places like Boston.

• I one day hope to meet a smokin' hot geologist dedicated to volcanic studies whose name is Ashley Firestone.

• Because their sedentary postures are identical, it’s impossible to tell the difference between an idler and someone lost in thought, I often cry out “Eureka!” when I reach some profound conclusion. Like just now when I decided if I’m going to have the onion rings instead of the fries with lunch tomorrow. “Eureka!”

• I started today thinking about war lords and how you never hear about peace lords. Now I'm thinking about all the other lords and which lord suits me best. There are land lords, drug lords, lordy lords, Jack Lord, sea lord, The House of Lords and slum lords. I've never seen wordlord, bloglord or book lord, so I guess I'm hoping I'll one day be OMa Lord or, cross your fingers, Good Lord.

• We all need a little perspective on these Canadian wildfires. I mean, it's not like Canada is some massive country with billions of acres of freestanding timber. Canada is roughly the size of Connecticut. Right? They both start with C. That's the way it works, right? Or maybe I'm thinking of Cansas. Either way, let's all take a deep breath -- at least those of us who can still do so without choking.

• Used to wake up on hazy mornings like this and assure myself, "It's just a little morning fog. It'll burn off." Now, I'm troubled by the realization, it is NOT a little morning fog. It IS ALL BURN OFF.

Thots on Titan sub & untimely death

 

(648 words)

I blame my years as a young newspaper reporter for why I spend so much time thinking about untimely death.

Back then it was a near daily smorgasbord of reporting on the often violent expirations of hapless Tennesseans. They’d accidentally steer jalopies off cliffs, stumble into the rusty wood chipper, and drunkenly fail to exit the bed after the last cigarette began to singe the sheets.

And after I’d finished each story I’d in my mind put it in one of two categories: “How I’d want to go,” or “Not how I’d want to go.”

So, to me, the death to which I most aspire is to die peacefully in my sleep of multiple gunshot wounds.

It sounds on the surface contradictory. It is not.

See, the first bullet may jar you awake, and you’d be briefly pissed. But bullets four through six will shut your lights out with minimal disruption.

Sleeping next to a snoring spouse is more annoying.

At least, I guess, in the short run.

So that’s how I’d like to go.

What can I say? You’ve got your bucket list. I’ve got my kick-the-bucket-list.

One way I do I not want to go is right now being played out in the chilly waters of the North Atlantic. 

With five souls right now in grievous peril, some may say any lurid discussion of the fate of the crew of the Titan submersible is in poor taste.

Nonsense.

The crew is composed of wealthy bona fide adventurers. They wipe their asses with waivers that in cold legalese warn just what happened really could happen.

They not only mock death. They court it.

They each paid up to $250,000 to secure a voyage on the Titan.

Although at least one of them had flown into outer space, they weren’t the kind of people anyone would describe as “flighty.” I’m sure they and their retainer lawyers did their due diligence and decided the result would be worth the risk.

I have a thousand questions. 

First: do you think they were wearing seatbelts? My vehicle doesn’t move until everyone is buckled up.

Another question: If they, indeed, took every precaution, how come the story doesn’t have a happy ending involving a winch and a surface crew reeling in a really, really long rope with the vulnerable sub on one end and  sweet salvation on the other.

Having a long rope solves many at-sea misfortunes.

Many people say their greatest fear is the fear of dying alone. My greatest fear is dying in a room crowded with many people. 

I think for me the worst part would be the hours and hours of small talk with perfect strangers while awaiting a rescue that may never come.

Imagine the conversations. 

The English woman would say she regretted cheating on her faithful husband. The older Australian dude would say he was sorry he missed out on his kids’ childhood. The guy most like me would repeatedly keep apologizing for the constant farts.

It’d be all me. Me. Me.

Why, I doubt Bob Dylan’s name would even come up.

Who wouldn’t prefer to die all alone? But are we ever all alone?

Homer Simpson didn’t think so. When he was being quizzed about his drinking habits, Marge asked if her hubby ever drank alone. Homer responded by asking if God counted as a person.

Yes, I’d want God for my co-pilot in any situation when death seemed imminent.

I’d thank Him for such sweet life, for the love so many of His children shared with me, and for such a laughter filled life.

I’d say I was sorry for all my sins, my sloth, gluttony and for holding to many petty grudges.

And I’d ask Him to forgive me for in a world in need of so much urgent prayer, I chose to write jocular things like this.

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What we used to call Tweets of the Month...

 Check out my Intstagram!

• I swear, if I were a lumberjack, I’m certain I’d spend less time jackin’ lumber and more time sitting in the shade pondering what to me is the root question of the profession: “Okay, the boss ordered me to cut this tree down. And as soon as I do he’ll order me to cut the tree up. Down! Up! Up! Down! Make up your mind! … Or is it make it down?” It ain’t easy having the brain of a free-range chicken.

• Thought of showing solidarity with my striking Hollywood writing brothers and sisters until I realized how impractical it would be, what with pals forever inviting me to cross my own Tin Lizzy picket line and join them inside for a drink. #ChrisCross

• Book facts: “Evan & Elle” vs. “The Holy Bible”

The “Holy Bible”  contains 783,137 words, none of which is the word Bible. It’s true: The word “Bible” does not appear in The Bible.  “Evan & Elle” is 85,842 words long, 17 of which are the word Bible. Also, the word “begat” is used 139 times in the Bible, but not once in my book. Yet 9 times in my book, “hot tub” is used  and it appears not even once in The Bible. Then there is this: The Holy Bible sells roughly 100 million copies each year. In almost one year, “Evan & Elle” has sold 133 copies. What all this means, I cannot fathom, but this much I know ... my next book is going to have a heckuva lot more begatting than “Evan & Elle.”

• Just finished my morning banana. Looking for a place to safely dispose of the hazardous peel. Even though I find slapstick  comedies about guys slipping on carelessly discarded banana peels hilarious, I wouldn't want to risk injuring an innocent. I wonder if monkeys are so careful. I'd think Monkeyland would be an endless carnival of primate pratfalls. I wonder if monkeys laugh when another monkey slips on a peel. Some days I wish I were a monkey.

• It is generally agreed there are 600,000 words in the English language. But until we find another word for trunk, which describes both the front of an elephant and the back of a car, confusion will rain, er, reign.

• My fear is that another unforeseen consequence of climate change is when the weather forecasters say, “It’s really comin’ down in buckets,” they’ll be speaking factually. A typical 5-gallon bucket full of water weighs about 45 lbs, enough to shred even the sturdiest umbrella. Cities will be leveled. Cat-’n’-dog precipitation will be even more gruesome. Old-timers like me will sit in shelters and regale the kiddos with our folksy stories of what it used to be like back when rain was just rain.

• Just read that Napoleon said one hour-long bath is the restorative equivalent to four hours sleep. Some will read that and use it to justify luxuriating in a nice warm bath for maybe an hour every once in a while. I go full extrapolation. Eight hour-long baths each and every day! Vive la France!

• I was blown away stuck in traffic today when my 16-year-old out-of-the-blue said just 2 words: "You're good". I immediately choked up and said, "Well, I try. I know I'm not the best provider, the hardest worker or drive the nicest car, but to have a daughter willing to say outloud what I pray she in her heart believes means I must be doing something right." She said that's not what she meant. The traffic had parted and she was telling me it was safe to proceed. 

• Coronation coverage spurred me to finally learn the identity of the neighboring properties adjacent to No. 10 Downing St. The world-famous address just seems so ordinary. That's because it is. Turns out No. 9 Downing St. is ... a Sheetz convenience mart! What's at No. 11 Downing St? Another Sheetz! I didn't research what's at Nos. 8 and 12 Downing, but I'm sensing a trend.

• There are 7.88 billion people on this angry planet. Just imagine how many there’d be if there were no wars or insane violence inflicted on one another? We’d all be stepping on one another’s toes. Maybe war and insane violence are God’s way of controlling the population. I mean imagine a world without victims. Imagine.

• Daughter just came back from a disappointing dinner with friends. Said the waitress was rude. Abrupt. Indifferent. I told her there are going to be people like that, people who resent her and her friends for their youth, their appearance, their optimism and their long, beautiful hair. Almost had her believing it until I blurted out, “Happens to me all the time!”

• When push comes to shove, I'm fine with push coming to shove. My problem is that today in America we go straight from shove to semi-automatic assault weapons. I'm growing nostalgic for the days when people used to be satisfied when all they hurt were my feelings. 

• it’s not uncommon to hear people complain things are so tight they're on a shoestring budget, meaning they have little money. Don't let me hear you bitching about that. At least, I say, you can afford shoestrings. It's way worse for me. Always broke. No work. I guess that means I'm on a loafer's budget.

• Was seeking a word to describe reader-relationship to my books and thought of “beloved.” It’s a good word, but a bit presumptuous. Too bad there isn’t “beliked.” Betolerated doesn’t exist either. Good thing because if it did I’d feel obliged to use it in relation to my precarious family situation. It would be considered unbecoming and from my home I’d likely be going

• It’s not uncommon to hear older men wistfully refer to lost loves as “the one that got away.” Now, these guys are my friends, but I knew them then and I know them now. They didn’t get away. They fled. At full speed. Like from altar to 60 mph in 3 seconds. They burned rubber. They were Bandit. You were Smokey. 

• I can imagine there is no heaven. It’s easy if I try. No hell below us. Above us only sky. I can imagine all the people living for today. I can imagine many things, but I cannot for the life of me imagine a world without bacon.

• I was trying to teach a bone-headed young friend of the value of spending, say, $140 on a fancy shirt while you’re young and affluent, as he is. “I just can’t see spending $140 on a shirt,” he said. I told him it’s only a $140 shirt the first time you wear it. Then it becomes a $70 shirt. Then the next wear it’s a $35 shirt. “Why I have some shirts I bought in 2001 that cost me mere pennies per wear and every time I wear it, I feel a surge of tastefulness amidst all the compliments.” He said, “Yeah, but I can’t see spending $140 on a shirt.” Know what I think? I should spend less time trying in vain to educate overpaid young boneheads and more time hearing style tips from my friends Kevin & Bob at Lapels in Greensburg. 

• My superiority complex is so complex it can make sense of the implausibility that a man with accomplishments and results as meager as mine can feel superior to MDs, CEOs and people who merely root for teams from places like Boston.

• The first Memorial Day was commemorated May 30, 1868. Organizers believed the day was necessary so we would never forget the cruel sacrifices of war. Today’s headlines feature news of war in Ukraine, Sudan, Myanmar, Syria, Somalia, Columbia, Afghanistan, Ecuador, etc. And in case you haven’t noticed, things are getting a mite tense right here at home. Ah, war,  how can we ever forget ya? You’ve never gone away.

• I’d be lying if I said I was happy to have succumbed to male pattern baldness, but if it had to happen I’m relieved it happened years before I ever had to look in the mirror during the morning groom and ask the question: Let’s see for today: Man bun or no man bun?

• In my restless quest to funnel money from my brain into Buck 's pocket, I'm going to urge him to re-brand the Tin Lizzy basement bar as a trendy boutique winery that'll appeal to deep-pocket hipsters who enjoy being in on the joke. Coming soon (probably not), 'The Grapes of Rathskeller!'"

It's true: Fred Rogers & Arnold Palmer never got along

 

(674 words)

I’m proud that all my books and subsequent talks are all about spreading happiness and understanding. My aim is to uplift the downtrodden.

So why is it one of the things I’m sure my audience always remembers most is something most distressful?

I guess it’s because no one wants to believe that Arnold Palmer and Fred Rogers never got along.

It’s true.

Two of the warmest, most gracious and historically kind men didn’t like the thought of being in the same room together. Heck, it seems they didn’t like having to share Latrobe.

How do I know?

The realization came to me incrementally.

The first hint — and it was a blunt one — came in June 2004. I was in Palmer’s office days after George W. Bush had awarded him the Presidential Medal of Freedom, the highest civilian honor the U.S. can bestow.

I congratulated him and said, “How about Latrobe winning two Presidential Medals of Freedom in the last two years!”

I’d startled him. “Who won before I did?” he asked.

“Why, Fred Rogers won in 2002,” I said.

“He did? …

“Damn it.”

I thought his instinctual reaction was hilarious. After all, here was a renown competitor so sensitive to coming in 2nd he begrudged a hometown classmate for beating him to a rare honor. And not only was the winner worthy, he was beloved around the world for many of the same reasons as Palmer.

And his reaction stuck with me. Could I have misread the situation?

I’d every once in a while try to sleuth some answers.

Try this: Google “Arnold Palmer” and “Fred Rogers.” There is not one single picture of the pair together.

Big deal, you say?

They were one year apart in school; Fred is 13 months senior to Palmer and graduated in ’46, Palmer in ’47.

Within 10 years of graduation both had achieved notoriety and were well on their way to enduring international fame.

What does a small town do with a pair like that? It puts them in the Fourth of July parades. It features them at ribbon cuttings. It puts them mugging for the camera on the front page of the local paper.

Not one picture.

.

There are more pictures of Palmer and me.

Well, they were busy men, some will say. There’d have been scheduling conflicts.

There may well have been.

But three decades' worth?

“Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood"  ran from 1968 through 2001. The years coincide with the years Palmer was one of the most popular men on the planet. He’d already won armloads of international championships, presidents and royals alike sought his company and his warmth was considered so genuine, many of Americas most reputable brands showered him with cash just to have his name associated with their products.

But he was never once on a show that had “neighbor” in the title and starred a man who was an actual small town neighbor. They could have talked about old teachers, school dances, old flames, etc. They could have talked about the golf lessons Fred took from Arnie's old man, the local pro.

Instead of Palmer, featured guests included ballerinas, cops, cobblers, steel workers, nurses, athletes — friends from all walks of life. 

He even had a talking gorilla named Koko on in ’98.

I envision a production meeting where they’re discussing potential guests and someone says, “Well, we’re down to two. We could ask Arnold Palmer or we could ask Koko, the Talking Gorilla.”

I see Fred leaning back in his chair and saying, “Well, let’s ask the gorilla. If he says no, then let’s ask Palmer.”

Over 31 years and 912 episodes, there was not even a mention of Arnold Palmer.

Fascinating. I’ll leave it up to the speculators to divine who’s to blame for the apparent life-long rift between two of the most famously gracious men ever to walk the planet. 

I think it’s upsetting because we’re left to conclude, gee, if Arnold Palmer and Fred Rogers can’t overcome their petty differences, what chance do the rest of us have?

It seems we’re fated to endure lives of squabble and bitterness.

It is inescapable.

Damn it.

(All Chris's books can be bought through www.ChrisRodell.com; storyteller@chrisrodell.com; 724 961-2558)

My unwanted adventure inside the women's restroom

 

(757 words)

I mistakenly found myself on the culture war front lines Saturday at an otherwise innocent golf bash..

And, yep, my penis was partly to blame.

It by mistake led me into the ladies' room.

It’s where conservatives believe the about 1.4 percent of Americans who identify as transgender are massing to present temptations that likely would have sent Adam & Eve scrambling all over Eden searching for some sort of early owner’s manual.

The conservatives don’t want even a single penis in the ladies room. After Saturday, I can relate.

I’d been invited to sign Arnold Palmer books (primarily) at the Somerset Golf Bash at the vast Bakersville Banquet Hall. I’d have a table set up right by the entrance guaranteeing heavy foot traffic. Plus the emcee/host is a friend of mine and an articulate advocate of my books. 

And this is all in front of 300 golfers there to spend money to win golf equipment, trips and memorabilia. How many books under those advantageous circumstances do you think I sold: Twenty-five? Fifty? More?

I sold eight. I’m aware many writers would view this as yet another career humiliation. Not me.

Here’s how I did the math:

I was there from 11 to 4. Walked in with nothing; departed with $160; spent time laughing with old friends and made some new ones. Ate free and was given a little yellow wrist band that meant I was master of my sobriety.

I could drink as much or as little as I wanted — For free! I decided to err on the side of getting a little shitfaced.

Yes, I gave in to a good long guzzle. It was fun. My table mate was a recent Pitt graduate. He’d read the Palmer book and was a fan. I wasn’t driving.

Sticking to sobriety under the circumstances would have felt like a criminal betrayal of all the drinking buddies who’ve stood, er, swayed unevenly by me through so many unforgettable times neither of us will ever remember.

So I’m having fun and am just a bit north of tipsy. That’s no excuse. I’ve been having fun and been north of tipsy since the 4th grade and don’t remember missing the restroom sign. 

But this was the first time I had the guy in the mustard-stained sweater on my mind.

The stranger reminded me of my Dad, as sweet a man who ever lived, albeit one whose every garment looked like it had been worn smock-like to paint the pantry with French’s yellow mustard.

But he appeared to be so happy, being out with golfers anticipating the season. Again I thought of Dad.

The stain was on his lower back on the side that if he were a car it would be referred to as the passenger side. 

Some careless hotdog eater had perhaps brushed up against him and smeared the condiment on a sweater you just knew he cherished. The spineless assailant then just slinked away, too cowardly to confess.

That’s just what I would have done, too, by the way.

I was left with no good options. Tell him and it ruins his day. Don’t tell him and he may be ridiculed. Then there was the third option. Say nothing, do nothing and walk straight into the nearest restroom like you own the place. I don’t know how I missed the signs, but I was consumed with helpless thoughts of this dude’s mustard-stained sweater

I remember noting there were no urinals. I didn’t care. There were no women either, and an abundance of women are a telltale sign in any womens room.

I found an open stall door, entered, used my foot to lift the seat and then began to  contribute depth to the bowl contents.

It didn’t get interesting until I opened the stall door. . There were five or six women. It was like the ladies room had been invaded — by ladies!

One woman, the aggressor, asked what I was doing in there. 

I bit my tongue when I came close to reflexively answering, “My name is Chris Rodell and I’m here to tell you all about Arnold Palmer!”

She was scowling. There was an edge in her voice that let me know she was deciding whether or not a tasing was justified.

I apologized — it was sincere — and made a hasty exit. 

It was an innocent mistake. And like so many others that came before and will surely come again, assigning blame was a cinch.

Yes, it was all the fault of yet another man being careless with his wiener. 

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