Randy Travis & the perils of driving while naked

News that Randy Travis was arrested for driving drunk and naked had one reporter wondering if “he’s hit bottom,” an interesting turn of phrase about a man ready for a good spanking.

It had me thinking, man, there’s something I’ve never done.

And I’m talking about the driving naked bit.

In fact, there’s more. It turns out the country singer -- and I’m a big fan -- tried to buy cigarettes naked.

That’s something else I never dreamed of doing. Don’t you need pockets for that sort of thing?

At the minimum, he’d be holding keys, a wallet, a lighter and probably a smart phone. Even people like me who often consider pants a nuisance have to admit pockets add a certain utility to daily life.

I have some great memories of being naked in a car, but none of them involve driving solo to fetch groceries.

Or I should say “nekkid,” the difference being, according to the late great Southern humorist Lewis Grizzard, that “naked is being without clothes; nekked is being without clothes and up to something.”

The best of it was in high school some 30 years ago. Me and my friends were avid skinny dippers.

We weren’t the most popular kids, but we always managed to find a few young pretty girls reckless enough about their reputations to want to hop a fence with us and sneak into someone’s backyard pool for a little illicit fun.

Some of the happiest times of my life involve being a proud father. Some of the others involve trespassing naked in the backyards of vacationing strangers.

Cruel age can steal my wits, my mobility and all my earthly possessions, but I hope it never robs me of my memories of what happened during those adolescent romps. I’ll be a happy old man, a happy, dirty old man.

So as you can surmise I bring a sympathetic point of view to Travis’s escapades.

But I’m having trouble understanding what kind of fun you’d have driving around Texas nude and looking for smokes.

I try to put myself in his shoes. Understand a strict constructionist would say for him to be truly naked, he wouldn’t even be wearing shoes.

Not me. I think sensible footwear is a necessary part of doing many fun things in the nude, other than the obvious ones that are done nude and mostly horizontal.

I can see myself walking into a Texas mini-mart nude, maybe on a dare, but I can’t see myself walking fully-clothed but barefoot across the gum and butt-studded parking lot of one. I have sensitive feet.

Then there’s this: Travis threatened the arresting officers saying he would “shoot to kill.”

Was he packin’?

Again, a pocket would have probably enhanced the threat. Either he was wearing an unreported holster or else he was using his finger gun, which would make it one of the world’s most entertaining dash-cam videos ever.

Anyone remember my stories last summer about National Nude Recreation Week?

I learned a lot about nudie fun and much of it stayed with me. For instance: a game of 8 Ball played between two naked men is still called 8 Ball.

I also learned that nudists like to say they’re most comfortable in their own skin.

So, given my personal and professional experience, I know a thing or two about public nudity.

None of R.T.’s episode strikes me as recreational fun.

As I said, I’m a big fan. He was king of Nashville in the late 1980s when I was a young reporter there.

He raised eyebrows in 1991 when at 32 he married his manager, Lib Hatcher, a woman who was 16 years his senior. The pair divorced in 2010.

The speculation may be rash of me, but I believe Travis might be what I call a “slomosexual,” a person who devotes his or her life to the self-proclaimed virtues of public heterosexuality before finally coming to grips with their true sexual identity.

I suspect Travis’s troubles stem from a fear his mostly conservative fans will turn on him if he’s honest about what’s bothering him.

I suggest he seek advice from Elton John, another popular entertainer who in the mid-1980s participated in a sham marriage that lasted just a bit longer than “Benny and The Jets.”

It saddens me when someone like Travis, who’s made so many people, can’t find happiness himself.

Let’s hope with this he has hit bottom, so to speak.

And that a man who’s now enduring ridicule for being naked will find a way to finally be comfortable in his own skin.

I am now the bar's official Twitterist

I’m up above the water and can see the dorsal fin cutting the waves beneath me. Yes, I’m in the midst of jumping the shark at my favorite tavern.

I can’t complain. I’ve enjoyed a nice run, but my best days at The Pond, I’m sorry to say, are behind me.

Evidence of this is now splashed on the electronic chalk board that used to entertain bar patrons with great sports trivia.

Now, the entertaining is all up to me.

I’ve become The Pond’s official Twitterist. This is odd because many of the bar’s patrons haven’t the foggiest idea of what Twitter is.

They’re like Dave. He owns the bar and restaurant and the second floor apartment where I keep my shabby little office. But he doesn’t own a computer. He never will.

You could call that old school, but today even all the old schools have computers so I don’t know what you call it.

So if I write a blog post I want to share with Dave I have to print it out and hand it to him. I don’t mind. He has a joyful laugh and it makes me happy to do anything short of tickling to provoke it.

As for tweets, I tell him all my best lines, and he usually returns fire with something equal or superior. He’s hilarious.

But sometimes I’ll think of something that can’t be conveyed orally, like something involving word play.

That was the case with this line I tweeted: “A mohawk is a colorful hairdo. A Moe Hawk is an irrationally angry bird that inflicts slapstick violence on a Curley Hawk or Larry Hawk.”

Allow me to boast, that’s brilliant. It combines cerebral humor with The Stooges, the most felicitous pairing since pornography and the internet.

But it doesn’t work if you say it aloud. It must be eyeballed to differentiate between the Mo’s.

So I decided to text it to Dave. He loved it. Said it made his day.

“You know,” I said, “if you had one of those things you call an internet box you’d have access to this kind of genius all the time.”

“Well, that’s not going to happen,” he said. “If you think of something clever like that, why don’t you just scribble it there on a cocktail napkin and push it toward me when you’re ready for a fresh beer.”

We were at loggerheads. I sit at his bar to complain about how much time I write for free on the internet. I don’t want to write for free inside the bar, too.

We went back and fourth and about four beers later I had a “Eureka!” moment after glancing at the blank e-chalk board. It’s been dormant for two years now since smart phones became common in the bar.

The board used to be home to the world’s greatest sports-centered trivia. Dave thought it all up himself.

For example (answer at end):

Name the only four American universities who’ve graduated both U.S. Presidents and Super Bowl winning quarterbacks?

But he became furious when instead of puzzling the answer out with their minds, idiots would just reach for their smart phones. So one day he simply stopped posting trivia.

I wish he’d have just banned smart phones rather than neglect the board, but he has a business to run. Moron money is as good as the rest of ours.

Then it hit me. The e-chalk board and I are both basically unemployed. We both spend hours in the bar doing nothing. It was a match made in bar heaven.

“How about I start posting a tweet of the week on the board? On the bottom I could put my website for an innocuous little promotion. What do you say?”

He thought it was a great idea! So I took the little grease pencil, plugged in the board’s lighting device and began to scribble my Moe Hawk tweet. I was very pleased. It would brighten the bar and I’d sneak in a little self-promotion.

So I was crestfallen the next day when I showed up and the board was blank.

“No one could read your sloppy writing,” Dave said. “I got tired of having to explain it the drunks. Don’t worry. I’ll put it up later. I’m used to vertical writing.”

And put it up he did. But not the way I would have.

As you can see above, he made me, not my tweet, the star and that’s a sure shark jumper for me. Early reaction has been positive, but I’m sure that won’t last.

See guys like us in bars like ours resent show offs. Here’s what I’d think if I wasn’t me.

“Geez, now Rodell’s here even when he’s not here. And he’s always here. He never shuts the hell up. He thinks he’s soooo funny. Bastard still owes me twenty bucks. He’s so full of himself. I wish Dave would bring trivia back. I’m really starting to hate Chris Rodell.”

And these are all my best buddies. We all like each other, but the truth is we’re all more interesting when our lives are in the crapper.

It’s more fun talking to a guy who’s getting divorced than hear a guy brag about his sporty trophy wife and their dimpled honor students.

So now I’m getting some attention for my book. I suspect that to continue. In fact, I hope to be sick of myself by Christmas.

Oh well, it was fun while it lasted.

“Happy Days” had five good, lucrative seasons at the top before it jumped the shark.

And I enjoyed my week.

Trivia answer:

The U.S. Naval Academy (Jimmy Carter, Roger Staubach); University of Michigan (Gerald Ford, Tom Brady); Stanford (Herbert Hoover, John Elway, Jim Plunkett); Miami of Ohio (James A. Garfield, Ben Roethlisberger).

Here’s a baker’s dozen of recent tweets, some of which may or may not earn inclusion on The Pond board:

• Monday morning reminder: the only time bitch, bitch, bitch turns into something positive is when you're running a dog grooming operation.

• It's a cruel irony that things that could most benefit from alcoholic diversion - church, work, parenting - require at least some sobriety.

• It would be cool if Mars rover has a bumper sticker that says "If you don't like Hank Williams you can kiss my..." w/ pic of a donkey.

• Perverted sheep farmers are bound to spend time on the lamb.

• I absolutely can't stand this about myself but sometimes I find myself sitting here thinking, man, I wonder how Kate Gosselin's doing?

• As I approach my 50th birthday, I consider it one of my life's signature achievements that I've never dropped my phone in the toilet.

• I dreamed last night I was Chris Rock and slept funny.

• Laura Bush says GW makes an easy target. Really? Then how come that Iraqi shoe-chucker missed him by, oh, what was it? A foot?

• Happy 69th birthday Mick Jagger! I remain astounded you, my Mom, and Larry King are de facto contemporaries.

• As we know their positions, how about we decide presidential race by having Romney & Obama play "The Quiet Game." First to speak loses.

• I'm a staunch advocate for racial equality but am fearful over what a truly color blind society will mean to our nation's sock drawers.

• People who fear they’ll be embarrassed by a malfunctioning spellchecker suffer from typochondria.

• It reveals an unpleasant cruelty about myself, but I enjoy looking at pictures of tranquilized bears falling out of trees.

Cool thoughts on international armpits

I was going to call this “A Salute to Armpits!” but thought it might confuse people into concluding I’d developed a surprising new fetish.

I have no affinity for armpits -- mine or yours -- although some do. I, of course, found countless sites celebrating those who enjoy romancing the armpit.

I make no judgements. Armpit lickers may find it kinky I enjoy it when my wife nibbles on my ear lobes.

Really, other than during the nano-second morning swab with the Old Spice Matterhorn stick, I rarely devote more than a moment to thinking about the pits.

But for more than a week the world’s armpits have been right in our faces.

I’m talking about the Olympics.

My avid viewership has turned me into the Fareed Zakaria of armpit observation. He’s the CNN expert on international affairs. I’ve become the Latrobe expert on international armpit customs.

Very few summer Olympians wear modest T-shirts. They mostly wear strapped tank tops or less.

I’m sure there are competitive reasons for being as nearly naked as possible, but I suspect it’s mostly vanity.

They want us to see their magnificent upper bodies. I’m sure most Olympians would gladly compete naked if allowed -- and imagine what that would do for viewership!

They have fabulous bodies and want the world to bask in their grandeur.

I understand this, too. I was in Mississippi in March and a pretty girl told me I have beautiful hands (humility prevents me from posting a picture). I got home and the first thing I did was throw away all my gloves.

Probably a good thing she didn’t say I have a nice ass.

But this epidemic of televised near-shirtlessness has unintended consequences: armpits are everywhere. Anytime an athlete raises an arm in celebration or waves to the crowd it’s hello Pitsburgh!

Bushy ones, shaved ones, black ones, yellow ones, white ones, brown ones -- it’s a United Nations of armpits.

I wanted to know why some shave their armpits and some don’t. Men even.

We’re actually coming up on an interesting cultural anniversary here in America. The year 2015 will mark 100 years that Western women began shaving their pits. That’s when popular magazines began showing a scandalous picture of a voluptuous woman in a sleeveless shirt revealing shaved pits.

And let’s all marvel at the innocence.

Profiteers sensed opportunity with another way to make insecure women feel vulnerable about their looks. Soon every woman was shaving her pits.

The anecdote reminds me of a Feech La Manna moment from “The Sopranos.” He was the 60ish Robert Loggia character who’d recently been liberated from nearly 20 years in prison.

In a rare reflective instance, someone asks what surprises him most about societal change since his release. Was it electronic innovations? Social considerations? The fall of the Berlin Wall?

Feech becomes thoughtful and says, “Know what the biggest change for me is? These broads are all shaving their beavers.”

I was surprised to learn it is a religious duty of faithful Muslims, both men and women, to shave their armpits. That’s a hygienic directive straight from the holy Prophet Muhammad.

There’s much to admire about the Muslim faith, but learning their holy men issue religious directives involving the nitty gritty of armpit grooming makes me glad I’m a casual Christian who reads the Bible to learn big picture life lessons like about whom it’s okay for me to screw and when.

Biologists say the hair’s there to wick away sweat and reduce friction between the arm and the thorax, which seems to indicate campfire-starting matches are unnecessary as long as any of us has access to a husky woman with shaved pits.

I’m already suspicious of any profit-minded industry that tells us how we should look, smell or behave to be popular.

That’s why I’m chagrined to announce here an innovation of mine that will certainly revolutionize the body scent industry:

Refrigerated deodorant!

The scorching summer had me two weeks ago looking for ways to micro cool. Putting the Old Spice in the ‘frig seemed like a natural. I’m pleased to report the sensation is heavenly, if fleeting.

Understand, I only do this with my office ‘frig, fearful the girls at home will hastily mistake the deodorant for yogurt pops.

I’ve even coined a handy promotional slogan for my favorite brand:

“Room temperature deodorant just isn’t cool anymore. Try COld Spice!”

I encourage you to give it a try. Anything else is just the pits.

NASA flagged for excessive celebrating

I was surprised by the over-the-top reaction of NASA astrophysicists after they successfully landed the Curiosity research lab on Mars. They didn’t react like cool intellectuals I expect them to be.

They reacted like a bowling team that had just won the beer league finals. They high-fived, they chest bumped, they wept, they did everything but futterwacken.

If you read futterwacken and think the NASA gang ditched their duds and did something deviant then you’ve never seen Tim Burton’s 2010 version of “Alice in Wonderland.”

Futterwacken is a dancing sort of euphoria. In the movie the futterwacken is performed by the Mad Hatter (Johnny Depp) who dances so joyfully he separates himself from his head and still continues to dance. His arms and legs pop their joints and he moves in surreal way that would be the envy of every NFL end zone dance diva.

I saw the NASA clips and thought, “What happened to the tightly wound NASA chain smokers who reacted to life and death situations involving actual humans and a couple of monkeys with clench-toothed restraint. I mean, what the futterwacken?”

I gave it some thought and think I figured out why.

It sucks being a scientist.

It wasn’t that long ago that the opinions of scientists and engineers were sought by policy makers. It was an age of reason when brainy problem-solvers were hailed for their superior minds.

No more. Heck, today some policy-making politicians will consult bloggers before they consult reputable scientists.

Well, some bloggers.

No where is this more apparent than in the field of climate change.

Scientists have for 30 years been showing us reams of data warning, head’s up, the planet’s getting hotter. Better take our advice or things are bound to get sticky.

Today, Earth is literally on fire. The U.S. is experiencing historic drought. And newscasters remind us nightly that devastating wildfires are out of control in several states.

(Note 1: Of course, they’re out of control. There’s a reason they’re not called “tamefires.”)

Yet, a majority of Americans won’t believe them until Sean Hannity says he does.

(Note 2: I’m becoming convinced all Global Warming skeptics are going to Hell and it pisses me off they’ll be unable to recognize any difference once they get there.)

So with the $2.5 billion Curiosity they hit what they thought was a sure home run, thus the excessive celebration.

They were saying, “Look what we did! We landed an intact space lab on Mars! This will earn us the massive acclaim we’re so due! We Are the Champions! No Time For Losers ‘cause We Are the Champions of the World . . . and Mars!”

Or as artist Mike Huddleston so cleverly tweeted: “Dear Religion, while you were debating what chicken sandwiches were okay to eat, I just landed on Mars. Sincerely, your pal, Science.”

Sorry, but it’s still not enough to turn the tide. Funding and interest will continue to decline among the masses NASA needs to thrive.

First of all, their timing stinks.

Whose idea was it to time the dramatic landing so it would coincide with the Olympics? None of the major networks chose to cover this live.

Think about that a moment. America has landed a space craft on Mars, some 150 million miles away. The feat is not unlike spit balling a Higgs Boson particle from Pittsburgh and having it land on the spinning surface of a BB racing down a crooked San Francisco sidewalk. It’s truly mindblowing.

And NBC wouldn’t cut away from steeplechase.

(Note No. 3: I’m convinced right now the Koch brothers are planning a second mission so they can colonize Mars with the understanding it’ll allow them to age more slowly than us poor folks.)

What does NASA have to do to be the center of attention?

How about this: NASA needs to go NASCAR. The space agency needs to immediately solicit sponsors -- GoMarsDaddy.com! -- who’ll pay to have them send Curiosity competitors to the Martian surface.

They can race or turn the Gale Crater into giant bumper car arena. It would be must-see pay-per-view.

Because without a flesh ‘n’ blood astronaut on board, Americans just won’t watch.

(Final Note: I think now just for the hell of it futterwacken ‘round my little office.)

How come Olympic gymnasts rarely smile?

Lots about watching outstanding female Olympic gymnasts from around the world makes me uncomfortable.

Let’s start with the wedgies.

Can those anal floss outfits possibly be comfortable? They look like the girls were seized by their shoulder straps and shook two at a time by powerlifters.

I’m wondering if it was done deliberately to ensure proper style posture. They walk to their stations so immaculately vertical it looks like wedgies are still being applied by invisible bullies.

Second is the lack of joy. Unless they’ve won, their smiles seem forced. Most of the girls -- and I’m generalizing -- look like they’re wrapped too tight, both literally and figuratively.

It’s the hair styles. Most of them look like they went to the same crowbar-wielding beautician who’d yank back a fistful of hair, wrap it around a crowbar and just start twisting.

The effect is to pull the faces back rendering them incapable of smiling or doing anything more than squirt out a few tears when they’ve failed to stick a landing.

I think that’s why we’re all so taken with Gabby Douglas. She seems like such a happy exception to the general grimness of her fellow competitors in a sport that leave me asking a lot of questions.

Like, am I bad father or are my daughters a pair of lazy asses like their old man?

See, I’m raising gymnasts.

Both the girls, ages 11 and 6, enjoy weekly gymnastic lessons at the local mats. They’ve been thrilled to watch the female Olympians.

That’s good. I want them to get the same rush I got growing up competing on team sports, something I believe is essential to growing up well-rounded.

It’s been fun watching the events with the girls, especially the older one. Her eyes light up when she sees girls who are near her age doing spectacular things that earn international acclaim.

She hasn’t said so, but it would be unnatural for her not to go to bed and imagine herself up there sailing through the air, crowd cheering, $300 synthetic leotard jammed up where the sun don’t shine.

Well, probably not that last part.

I brace myself for the moment when either of them tells me they want to be an Olympic gymnast.

Because that’s when I’ll have to tell them that unless Daddy invents a time machine, neither of them will ever be Olympic gymnasts.

Yes, even the 6-year-old, the one who still plays with Barbies and imaginary friends, is too old.

Part of watching the Olympics saddens me because it seems like many of our best athletes have been raised like veal. They’ve been groomed since they were 4 to excel at something which normal 4 year olds do not aspire.

Normal 4 year olds aspire to watch TV, eat Lucky Charms, goof off, dig around in their noses, and spend long rainy days in bed cuddling with Mommy.

Hell, I’m 49 and those are some of MY priorities.

I guess we’re supposed to be moved by the NBC vignettes that show these girls working the parallel bars at an age when many other children are still trying to master potty training.

They show those clips and they want us to marvel at their dedication. I want to summon Children & Youth Services.

I saw the interview where Gabby said she cried and cried when, in pursuit of her dream, her mother sent her off from her Virginia Beach home to live two years with her coach in Iowa.

There are many times I’d like to send my daughters off to Iowa, but I’d be distraught if they weren’t back right back after I’m done catching up on “Breaking Bad.”

Her father is a staff sergeant in the Air National Guard and has been on many perilous overseas deployments. He and Gabby’s mother are in the process of divorcing.

That’s a lot for a kid to handle.

I don’t know who her Iowa coach is, but I’ll wager it’s not Dr. Phil.

And she seems truly well-adjusted. But for how long?

I hope I’m wrong, but I’m fearful we’ll one day see her again on TV, this time in a non-Olympic competition involving reality TV sobriety issues. It happens all the time when parents fail to let kids be kids.

What sacrifices are parents willing to make in pursuit of their children’s dreams?

It’s a question we all ask. Sure, I’d love to see my daughters one day doing something spectacular on TV.

But for now I’m perfectly content seeing them just watching TV over there on the couch right next to their Mommy.

C'mon, America! Let's all sing the national anthem!

This will surprise loony right wingers who think they hold a monopoly on patriotism, but I get choked up hearing the national anthem.

Yes, even gay marriage supporting, Obama loving, universal health care backing, tree hugging, pot legalizing, tolerance preaching 99 percenters like me can still love America just as much as you do.

So it got to me yesterday watching the U.S. women’s rowing team on the podium singing “The Star-Spangled Banner” with all the drive and joy that had earned them their gold medals.

I’d never seen any of these women before. Heck, the last time I saw anyone doing any rowing it was the studly Winklevii twins who crewed on the river while Mark Zuckerberg was busy screwing them out of a fortune in “The Social Network.”

Chances are I’ll never see any of these women again for the rest of my life. It’s a pity because I fell in love with them all, even though I suspect today at least one or two of them would if they could if be enthusiastic participants in today’s Chick-fil-A gay kiss-in protests.

There’s been stories about some crabby athletes unhappy they were unable to publicize their commercial sponsors during the games.

It was clear to me these women were proud to be sponsored by the only one that matters: The United States of America.

Tears were rolling down their dimpled cheeks. They were busting with pride and were singing the anthem for all it was worth.

I wish they’d mic all these winners. It would be instructive.

Because when you see some of these appealing athletes singing the national anthem it gives the wrong impression that because they look good, they must sound good.

This is unlikely. In fact, they probably sound a lot like my late father, who in my mind is to the national anthem what Tony Bennett is to “I Left My Heart in San Francisco.”

He is its signature vocalist.

I say this because I was next to him for over 30 years at hundreds of sporting events where he was the only anthem-singing person in the stadium besides the professional doing it over the public address system.

And what a voice.

It carried great distances. I always imagined birds in the African savannah scattering in alarm from their cypress trees as he began the first few notes.

I remember all the beer vendors turning in unison to our section high up in Three Rivers Stadium, fearful, I think, that one of their colleagues had spilled three or four trays of empty aluminum cans down the concrete stairs.

He’d start off the tune about five seconds behind the professional and then, realizing his pacing error, would accelerate so he’d be about five seconds ahead.

This often confused the professional so he or she would race ahead of my father and the national anthem became a sort of off-key “Row, Row, Row Your Boat” duet where the singers are never in sync.

As a kid, of course, I was horrified by this. No one else in the stadium was singing at all. In fact, rather than sing, many of the Steeler fans turned to stare gape-jawed at us.

This was probably 30 years before “American Idol” and other reality shows that celebrate talentless louts. It’s a pity his poor timing wasn’t exclusive to “The Star- Spangled Banner.”

He could have been the William Hung of the 1970s.

I remember one time I said, gee, Dad, it embarrasses me when you sing the national anthem.

“Son,” he said, “it embarrasses me when you don’t.”

I was thinking of the old man last week when I took our 11 year old to a matinee Pirate game. We got some grub and settled in for a great afternoon basking in America’s pastime.

And when time came to sing the national anthem, I bolted out of my seat, stood ramrod straight, hat over my heart and, as I always do, just gave it hell.

The whole time I noticed out of the corner of my eye Josie’s increasing discomfort. I was ready for her when the song was over.

What, I asked, does my singing embarrass you? Is my voice too unrefined? Would you rather I just mumbled?

“That’s not it, Dad,” she said.

When I stood up, I’d put my foot on her hot dog.

Audio rights for "Use ALL The Crayons?" Sold!

Confirmation of the surreal news arrived in the mail early this week. My book, “Use All The Crayons!” is being made into an audio book.

The letter said a check would be forthcoming and it would be sizable enough to forestall my perceived Amish destiny for another few days.

And a mind that does more boggling than perceptive thinking went into boggle overdrive.

So there’s a chance, albeit remote, you might hear -- cross your fingers -- Barbra Streisand reading:

“Colorful tip no. 401 -- Surreptitiously slip notes into the pockets of pants at clothing stores claiming to be from a slave laborer who earned a nickel the day the pants were made.”

I think having Streisand reading my book aloud would bring fresh interest in a book I’m starting to suspect has a chance to be a real self-publishing success.

Evidence of this comes from a bona fide publisher that’s expressing a preliminary interest in taking the title for themselves. This would give me huge distribution and promotional advantages I couldn’t achieve on my own.

In fact, as stated here, my business plan has been to give my book away for free and it says that right there on the very first page under the headline: “THIS BOOK IS FREE.”

I do this because, first of all, I believe in the book. The more eyeballs that see it, the more mouths that will talk about it. This is turning out to be the case. People are loving “Crayons” and telling friends about it.

Secondly, I believe people instinctively respond to kind gestures with reciprocal kindness. Many people are buying additional copies for friends and loved ones. Really, it makes a great gift to someone you love or for someone who’s helped add joyful colors to your life.

This is confirmed every time I open my little office refrigerator. To the door and sides I’ve taped more than a dozen letters beautiful enough to charm away all my blues.

They are from old friends, new ones, interested strangers and hardship cases who say they can’t afford a book, but somehow believe the book will help brighten their days.

The most touching of these is from an Illinois woman who read on the web that a guy was giving away for free a book about happiness.

Get a load of this:

“Karen T. is my 66-year-old sister is in a nursing home following amputation of her legs due to complications of diabetes. This comes on top of losing her son a bit over a year ago. He took his life five hours after our mother died. He had been one of Mom’s primary caregivers and we can only assume her death was more than he could handle.

“If anyone needs a pick-me-up to brighten her days, it is Karen. Her prospects of being able to get home in August (when her Medicare benefits run out), don’t look good. I am not confident that her family will be able/willing to take care of her at home.

“Thank you so very much for your generosity. Karen needs a mega dose of joy and optimism to help her in the days ahead.”

Man, that’s a lot of pressure for one little book.

So instead of the book, I sent her a case of bourbon.

And don’t even think of it, my dear boozy friends. Offer applies only to relentlessly grieving diabetic paraplegics whose Medicare benefits expire right . . . now.

Actually, I did send her a book and said a prayer.

I haven’t heard how it worked out, but if my book causes her legs to grow back I believe an hour with Oprah is in my future.

But last week I got one that’s even better. Beautiful, actually. It’s from Helen G.

“Dear Mr. Rodell, I can’t tell you how much I’m enjoying your book. I have very painful arthritis in both knees and suffer from a host of other health problems. Some days I get very depressed. Since reading your book, I realize I’ve only been using two very dark colors.

“Your book has been an inspiration to me to try and use all the crayons. Truly, it has changed my life. God bless you for making people happy.”

Changed her life?

She’s 97. That’s right, 97!

Her letter makes me chagrined I didn’t write this crayon book back when I was using actual crayons to do all my writing.

So I think we’re on to something here.

Want to help? Just keep doing what you’re doing. I asked anyone who received book to in exchange think momentary positive thoughts about me and the book. I think it’s working.

Buy if you feel like it. Tell your friends if it comes to mind. Instigate a book store stampede via social media if you’re feeling anarchic.

But I think we’re on the right track. If you really, truly, feel like doing something beneficial, then how about this?

Say a prayer for someone like Karen T.