Camping for the birds (not me)

Maybe a dermatologist could explain the condition, but the instant my wife says she has an itch to go camping I start getting itchy all over.

You could say I consider her urge rash.

I’ve never been more determined to do my part to save the environment. This is odd because the older I get the less I want to do anything that involves spending time out in it.

During bug-infested summer especially, I’ll take the good indoors over the great outdoors any day. Or night.

Summer is now the meanest season. The heat, the bugs, the explosive storms. It makes even bitter winter seem charming by comparison.

Yet once a summer Val insists we take the girls camping, as if failure to do so is some kind of neglect.

In fact, camping is by most standards very neglectful behavior.

Think about it. We’re taking the girls away from everything they love and exposing them to dangerous wilderness and well-armed rednecks intent on protecting themselves from the toothy varmints that would leave them alone if they just stayed on their porches.

Making the girls spend nights out in the woods is even more cruel than taking them to visit my in-laws.

Sure, they’re monsters, but at least in-laws have refrigerated sodas, indoor plumbing, rooms with doors, hi-def TV, and saintly men and women who’ll bring hot pizza right to their home. To our daughters, those are the very hallmarks of civilization.

It would all make sense if Val hated our daughters, but there’s ample evidence that is not the case. She’s a wonderful mother and the girls really love her.

Me, they sort of tolerate.

I’m good for giggles, but the main reason they put up with my often over-bearing presence is the same reason their mother does.

I get lots of free vacations in glamorous places.

For all my many professional failings, I’ve somehow become one of those writers lucky enough to have carved out a giddy little niche as a travel writer.

That’s how I ended up with an understanding that, when it comes to vacations, my daughters are more like me than their dear Mommy.

This realization was hammered home last summer when the 5-year-old complained that the TV in our accommodations was too tiny.

Oh, she was missing the big picture, all right.

We were shacking up at Far Away Point at St. Michael’s on Maryland’s Eastern Shore. I was doing a story about the splendid advantages of renting your own mansion for a week.

Built in 1928, Far Away Point is a secluded estate. The brochures said it sleeps 12, but we could’ve invited Delaware over for a kegger and there’d still be plenty of room for Vermont to crash.

It had a seven-person guest house, a boathouse, a Steinway piano room, an old-fashioned four-flight elevator, 100-acres with a half-mile of shore line on the Miles River, a private beach, and a historic graveyard full of nearly two dozen dead millionaires.

There wasn’t a tent pole in sight.

And it had one crappy little TV. It was about the size of my old Flintstones lunchbox and got very poor reception. That, to some, is a selling point. It’s meant to emphasize a retreat from technological intrusions where families could re-connect with each other instead of things like iCarly.

But my little princesses were appalled.

Their spoiled reaction is why I’ll again succumb to the ordeal of camping one sweltering weekend soon.

I believe my daughters and I will bond over the deprivations of having to endure the mosquitoes, the snakes, the lousy toilets and other inherent miseries associated with camping.

They’ll realize the Mommy they adore is, like the man she married, flawed. It’ll help even the playing field. I’ll remind them of all the snazzy places I’ve taken them and tuck them into their sleeping bags with promises that the next place we stay will have gourmet chocolates on the pillows.

Then I’ll plan to seize the initiative by securing the girls three nights in another mansion someplace splendid. And I promise you this:

This one will have a bigger TV.

Go Bucs! Jumping on bandwagon over jump on bandwagon phrase

The Pirates enter the All-Star break in first place and even the skeptics are starting to crowd their way onto the bandwagon.

Me? I’m trying to recall if I’ve ever seen a band on a wagon so compelling it made me actually want to hop on board.

I don’t think so.

There were about three or four bands on wagons at last week’s Fourth of July parade. I enjoyed seeing them for the 30 or so seconds it took them to roll past my station outside the bar, but none of them had me thinking:

“Wow, that’s some band on that wagon! How tuneful! I think I’m going to jump on that bandwagon and tag along clear down to that other divey bar I never go to before my drink’s empty.”

I remember seeing concert footage of the Rolling Stones riding a flatbed truck through Manhattan to promote the 1974 release of their classic “It’s Only Rock ‘n’ Roll.”

I don’t remember anybody jumping on that band’s wagon, but it was just a few years removed from Altamont and memories of lethal stage-crashing repercussions may have been deterrent.

It would be cool to hear a really good band rolling down the street on a wagon. I’m surprised the catchy FreeCreditReport.com band hasn’t tried it.

The phrase “jump on the bandwagon” dates back to 1848 when a fascinating circus clown named “Yankee” Dan Rice barnstormed the country in support of eventual 12th president Zachary Taylor. Rice was the Will Rogers of his day, was friends with both Abraham Lincoln and Jefferson Davis, and was feted by Mark Twain in “Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.”

He’d invite Taylor “jump on the bandwagon” to bask in his associated popularity. The phrase became derogatory when people saw herds of mindless politicians trying to do the same.

The fact that Rice in 1868 ran for president makes me wish we lived in an era when citizen clowns turned to politics instead of one where politics turns citizens into clowns.

No one can accuse me of jumping on the Pirate bandwagon. I’ve been on board for as long as I can remember.

I used to attend more than 30 games a year and twice earned my wife’s enmity by putting my Bucs over our baby.

The first time happened at the very instant I was learned I was becoming a father.

I was on the phone with my friend Wally -- and everyone should have a friend named Wally if not the actual Wally. Everyone loves Wally.

It was 2000 and the Pirates were moving into snazzy new PNC Park. It was up to me to decide whether we should get the 30-game plan with seats at $40 per game or the cheaper seats that were like $20.

I’m uncertain of the prices, but they are approximate.

You could say they are ballpark!

Just then my frantic wife came running down the stairs clutching a home pregnancy test.

I told Wally to hold on for a second and put my hand over the phone.

“It’s positive,” she said. “I’m pregnant. We’re having a baby in September.”

I did not react or say anything and she immediately left the room, I guess, to guzzle vodka.

I remember clearly what happened next.

I put the phone to my ear and told Wally, “Let’s go with the expensive seats. Go Bucs!”

The decision to spend at a time when savings were in order is open to criticism, but I snagged a foul ball in those seats later that year so I feel vindicated. I close my eyes and still hear the cheers.

That home pregnancy test was correct because about eight months later our first daughter was born on September 25. I went to my first Pirate game as a new father two days later.

I remember my wife, new baby at her breast, glaring ferociously as I left for the game.

The criticism was echoed the next day when my brother expressed his contempt. How could I, he wanted to know, go to a baseball game with a two-day old baby at home?

It was Three Rivers Snow Globe Night, I said, as if that explained everything.

The Pirates have the fourth best record in baseball and are playing like champions. They have pitching, hitting, defense and an appealing chemistry that is capturing the imagination of the city.

The daughter who was the source of so much pre-natal controversy asked me last week if the Pirates could win the World Series.

Yes! I exalted. After 19 years of losing baseball, it hadn’t occurred to me to even consider the likelihood. But they could. It’s amazing.

The Pirates are making this summer a joy ride.

Climb on board. The wagon’s rocking and this is one band that really swings.

My business plan: keep feeding the unicorn

A friend asked me where he could buy my book. Is it at the Barnes & Noble?

It certainly is, I told him. It’s everywhere.

“What do you mean everywhere? You mean every book store in the world?”

I mean everywhere. Every book store, hardware store and pharmacy. Everywhere means everywhere.

So my friend expressed frustration a week later when he said couldn’t find my book anywhere.

“That’s great news,” I said. “That means it’s sold out!”

I have financial incentives to sell the book myself and there are customer benefits to buying it from me.

I never charge the full $15.95 retail price and I make a real effort to make every book special.

As the book is called, “Use All The Crayons! The Colorful Guide to Simple Human Happiness,” I sign each edition in crayon, coloring in the clip art crayons on the title page, filling in the circles and without fail include a colorful author self portrait up in the corner. It’s a little four-element smiley face with sun beaming from its Charlie Brown-shaped head.

One happy reader described it as a minimalist Picasso.

I’ve spent a good deal of the past two months sending the book away to dozens of friends. Please get in touch if I missed you.

There’s fledgling evidence the book is starting to sell on its own and I hear good news about its prospects nearly every day now.

Get this: I learned this week the book’s audio rights are being negotiated.

Details are forthcoming but I promise, in keeping with my pledge to maintain affordability, if the cost winds up sounding too exorbitant let me know and I’ll just ride around in the car and talk to you for a couple hours.

This is all encouraging because the only thing more minimalist than my art skills are my business skills.

This became apparent when a business-minded friend of mine asked me about my business plan for selling the book.

Gee, I don’t have have one, I said. If I was the kind of guy who thought up business plans I’d be a businessman. A business-minded man never would have become a writer in the first place.

He never would have freelanced for 20 years, fathered children, or taken an office above a bar full of friends who pester him with text messages if he’s four minutes late for the daily Happy Hour.

I wrote a book I thought would make people happy. I’m giving it away for free to anyone who wants one because I believe they will respond to the gesture by wanting to help me spread the word which, cross your fingers, will lead to increased sales.

She was flabbergasted.

“So your whole marketing plan is based on giving the book away for free?”

That’s one way to look at it.

“Do you have a promotional line that will drive buyers to your website and amazon.com?”

I do! I’m telling prospective customers, “I can’t promise you’ll love the book, but I’m pretty sure it won’t make your head hurt!”

Talking with me was making her head hurt.

Of course, she’s right. It’s nearly impossible to sell even worthy products today without social media, guerilla marketing and insinuating product placement.

That’s why I think it’s the perfect time for a self-help book from a guy who has trouble helping even himself.

I think we’re all fatigued from being asked to artificially generate something that faintly resembles grassroots. Everything is poll-driven, market tested and analyzed clear down to Higgs boson proportions.

And it isn’t working.

If it was, the ballyhooed new TV programs they try and shove down our throats every four months would endure for more than six episodes.

So I’ve vowed to go the exact opposite direction.

I’ll not ask you to “like” me or rush over to amazon to review or, heaven forbid, purchase the book.

As I’ve long maintained, I’m giving my book away for free for the same reason Dr. Jonas Salk gave away the cure for polio: it would be wrong to withhold over money something that can help mankind.

Too bad I can’t get paid for audacity.

If you’re interested in paying for it, thank you very much. You can buy it online or we can make an arrangement.

And here’s the business plan I settled on after being berated about my humbling lack of a business plan: If you’ve bought or received a book, all I ask is you think momentary positive thoughts about me and my book.

That’s it. And, I swear, I think that’s going to be good enough.

Yes, I intend to be the first writer to ride to success on the back of a unicorn!

So I’ll spend the rest of the day keeping cool, sending out crayon-signed books and, like you, scraping about to find some actual wage-earning work.

Dreams aside, we all have to feed our unicorns.

More Olympic excitement? Just add 340 lbs

Count me as among those who can’t wait for the Summer Olympic Games to commence in London on July 27.

I love the spectacle, the stories and the competition.

Not everyone does.

In fact, many people are already declaring their disdain for the summer games.

Part of this goes back to the oft-repeated contention that the only thing more boring than track is field.

I’ve never understood this because it’s playground elemental.

Every child understands the joy of running fast. Every child wants to be swift. Better than even playing a game of catch, no one needs to teach a child how to run.

You just decide to fly and you take off.

I was the fastest fifth grader at Howe Elementary School. It’s something I’ve never forgotten.

It was a surprise victory because prior to that no one knew I was fast. Me neither.

This is a true story. The crusty old gym teacher was timing us in the 100 yard dash. Now, I don’t recall how long it takes your typical 11 year old to run 100 yards, but let’s say it’s about 20 seconds.

I did it in 14 seconds. Blew the field away.

My secret?

A fifth grade PED.

Someone had let a dog loose on the field the exact instant the teacher yelled, “Go!” to my group. For some reason this dog -- I remember it seeming coyote fierce -- took off right after my sport britches.

I used to run then much like I work today, aimlessly and without evident purpose.

I wonder how my career would be if someone sicced a big dog on my butt.

Because it did wonders for my fifth grade time. I truly remember finding an extra gear. I surged. I ran like the wind. To this day, I don’t remember stopping. I may have just run straight to the sixth grade.

Of course, today the victory would be in dispute because of rules preventing the use of performance enhancing dogs.

I was thinking of this the other day when a preposterous friend of mine was talking about the rivalry between the world’s two fastest men, Usain Bolt and Yohan Blake. The pair will be a marquee encounter throughout the Olympics.

A former athlete, he was saying he’d like to race the two of them.

I’m still unclear why he said this because it makes zero sense. He weighs in excess of 340 pounds, smokes like a chimney and drinks like me.

There’s nothing about his profile that suggests speed. Rehab and naps, maybe, but certainly not speed.

That’s why what he said was so inspiring. It gave me an idea that will make the Olympics must-watch viewing.

Every event needs a jumbo-sized male to compete against the world’s greatest athletes. Really, it’s hard to appreciate how truly great these athletes are when we only see them matched against other world class athletes.

A contrast would be informative.

But to make it fair, we’d need to give the tubby tracksters advantages.

I’m thinking in particular of the race to determine the world’s fastest man, the 100-meter dash.

The Olympians would spot the 340-pounders the first 80 meters.

They’d have just a 20 meter dash.

Think of it. With just 20 meters, there’s actually a chance they might snag a medal.

We talked about this at the bar the other day and the idea was greeted with enthusiasm by my fellow inebriates who helped refine the ground rules.

We decided it would be unfair to make the big boys start crouched down like tigers. Inevitably, that would cause them to fall flat on their multiple chins at the sound of the gun.

Plus, it would take too long to maneuver into the unnatural position and the Olympians might cramp up during the delay.

So we decided they could start up-right in what we called the smoker’s posture. It’s the lazy half-slouch/half-lean you see smokers engage when they’ve been banished from their offices to the scalding sidewalks to smoke.

Also, these guys would get three lanes all to themselves. This would allow them room to wobble in case inertia gets the better of them.

The slo-mo replays would be riveting.

You’d see Bolt and Blake burst out of the blocks in concentrated fury.

The big boys would just sort of stumble -- one would hope in the right direction -- with looks of confusion and fright.

You’d see the athletes gaining on the finish line in split-second increments.

The photo finish would be best. It usually takes finely tuned athletes another 50 meters before they expend all the speed and energy and slow to a stroll.

But the non-athletes would simply collapse at the finish line. They’d lay there pleading with track medics to bring them a cigarette and something alcoholic.

Just think of the offbeat sponsorship opportunities.

Ah, let the games begin.

I got the new profile picture anxiety blues

My steadfast contention that I am free of vanity is betrayed every six months when tradition dictates it’s time to change my profile picture.

I change it every time I change the oil in my Saturn, or about every 5,000 miles.

I have a goofy friend named Tim who changes his profile picture two or three times a week. His pictures are like mood rings. You see chipper Tim, pensive Tim, defiant Tim, playful Tim, grumpy Tim, heartbroken Tim, hopeful Tim, and devastated Tim.

So now I just think of him as unstable Tim.

Mine’s not like that. In fact, if you went back over the past few years my entire life could be described as: beard, no beard, beard, no beard, beard, no beard etc.

Some patriots believe the government is too involved in our lives.

I patriotically believe it should do more.

I’d like to see Congress mandate a set of rules regulating profile picture composition with some bureaucrat given final authority over whether we can or cannot use them in any social media.

It would take a lot of pressure off.

Just this week I considered using a cartoonish Simpson’s version of me, a woodland nature scene and a picture of me from before I had my sex change.

I mean from before I had my mustache.

But I consider that all kind of cowardly.

These isn’t a glamour shot I’m going to scatter about the bedroom to try and get the missus feeling frisky. If it were, my profile picture would be identical to one Matthew McConaughey uses.

These are the ultimate non-glamour shots. They ought to vanquish, not elevate vanity.

I try and smile because me appearing at all serious is utterly inauthentic. I skate through life grinning like a sedated mental patient so it would be misleading for me to appear grave.

For a while I was bold about mug shot integrity. Damn the torpedos -- my up-close pictures showed every scar, mole, splotch and gaping sinkhole pore that wasn’t concealed with unruly facial hair.

But as the flaws began to increase in population, observant viewers begin to spy more and more background in the pictures as I begin to recede further and further from the lens.

I was weighing whether or not I should try and hide the flaws or fear shocking viewers with the full ugly.

Worse, I began to wonder if visual plagiarism was beneath me. I began admiring other headshots and felt myself tempted to steal the cool poses.

I saw one great profile picture so engaging I thought, yeah, I’ll just pose exactly like that. I won’t be able to help looking super cool!

The problem was it was a 20-something free spirit flashing the peace sign, her long hair blowing in the wind. She, indeed, looked super cool.

I had my daughter take one of me mimicing the terrific pose and I didn’t look cool at all. In fact, I looked like a Richard Nixon boarding a helicopter bound for historical disgrace.

After nearly a dozen failed photo shoots, I finally opted for a prop: The backyard tire swing.

Tire swings have joyful connotations and I’m expert at installing them. I’ll bet I’ve put up half a dozen for my own and for neighborhood kids over the years

I thought people would see my mug encircled by one and say, “Hey, this is a cheerful looking gent. Seeing his smiling face in a tire swing makes me want to buy his book, which I see through his website is available for discount pricing. I think I’ll check it out.”

So far after four days this hasn’t happened once.

But I have had six people remark I look “tired” (should have seen that one coming). Two mentioned I appeared “well-rounded,” and one cruelly wondered, “Where’s Johnny Unitas when you need him?,” the inference being that that Hall of Fame quarterback skilled at tossing footballs through suspended tires could give my face a welcome bludgeoning.

Oh, well, I’m stuck with it and now have another 5,000 miles to go before I consider a change.

I fear the ensuing sessions will flip the cliche of photographic value and give it a taunting twist.

In the end, this one nerd will be worth 1,000 pictures.

The prisons we construct around ourselves

I thought about commemorating the 20 year anniversary of my doing mostly nothing by doing more nothing, but that seemed too obviously redundant.

This weekend marked 20 years since I quit the last salaried job I ever had.

There’s more. It wasn’t just the last day I ever had a steady paycheck. It was also the last day I had what I guess you could call a steady girlfriend. This weekend in 1992, I took the step beyond steady.

While I was becoming less committed to stable employment, I was becoming more committed to the fair Valerie.

If you judge my life on the wisdom of those two life-altering decisions undertaken within 24 hours of one another then I’m an absolute genius.

First, I left daily newspapers, an industry that in the next 20 years would shed profits, payrolls and prestige.

Second, moving in with Val was the best decision of my life. Our 3-year shack-up commenced on July 1, 1992, and led to an escalating progression of love, marriage and eventually our two darling daughters, Josie and little whatzzer name.

So in one 24-hour period I went from being a single guy with a job to being an off-the-market guy with no job. Everyone thought I was crazy, including the woman who today is, in fact, diagnosed with a form crazy herself.

My mother was flabbergasted that I would leave what seemed like a stable newspaper career to work full-time doing oddball features for America’s most notorious publication, The National Enquirer.

Why would I even consider such a thing? What will I tell my friends? Aren’t you worried about your reputation?

“Mom, you just don’t understand,” I said. “This will make me a much more interesting person.”

“But you’re already interesting enough,” she wailed.

She was mistaken.

From 1992-1999, I wrote more than 1,000 swashbuckling features for Enquirer, many of them involving the world’s most fascinating people and places. You can check out a nearly 4-year-old recap here.

It’s impossible to calculate how much prestigious and profitable work I passed up in favor of work that would be fun and interesting.

This has been to my financial detriment, but will I in the long run be better off?

I remain surprised I’m not yet a successful novelist. I have for five years been pitching a novel that gets great reaction from top people throughout the publishing hierarchy. I reprise the premise here in case any of you are powerful literary agents or publishers who’s been reading my blog strictly for the fart jokes.

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

It’s about a 117-year-old man who in 2079 is identified as the last baby boomer. By then people are so sick of baby boomers they will put him in a museum suite and charge contestants $25 each to spend 15 minutes with him in the room.

If they’re in the room when he dies, they win the jackpot.

One problem: He won’t die.

It’s a coming of old, old age story.

Because everyone has to die, but only one of us gets to die last.

I know what you’re thinking: I can’t believe that’s never sold. I can’t believe it either.

Maybe I should rewrite it and add parts where the old man has sex with zombies.

But “Use All The Crayons! The Colorful Guide to Simple Human Happiness” is showing signs it may flourish, and I’m getting interest from important people on two non-fiction proposals.

“We are born free and spend the rest of our lives constructing prisons around ourselves.”

That, I believe, is the most profound line I’ve ever written. It sounds almost Biblical, or like something that could have been written by ageless sages like Plato, Socrates or Jeff Probst.

But it’s mine and I truly believe it. In fact, I live it.

The prison I’ve constructed for myself has no security. It’s cheerful, nurturing and filled with love.

Ironically, for a place with no security, it has a lot of bars. For the last four years I’ve done most of my writing right above one of them.

As I look back on the last 20 years, I thank God for the decisions I’ve made.

My life has been interesting with interest compounded.

It takes my breath away to think the next 20 years could be even more interesting.

I’ll be content if it’s even half so.

And it’ll be nice if it pays just a little bit better.