Pirate wins, unruly fans, skinny dipping & other random thoughts

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• A friend of mine -- he was my first editor down in Nashville -- said he thought yesterday’s post was a “great column.” He then amended the compliment and scolded himself for calling it a column, a column being a soon-to-be archaic designation stemming from vertical newspaper layout. I got into writing because I so enjoyed reading Mike Royko’s Chicago Tribune column so I was very pleased. For the record, I usually call these posts, stories or essays and I’m relieved my old editor didn’t so fuss that he’d described the piece as “great.”

• I usually try and go to sleep with one potential blog topic on my mind and let it marinade until dawn. Then I can usually drive to the office in a foggy enough state of mind that I can write the thing in about 90 minutes. Whether it was because we watched about an hour of “Ted” starring Mark Wahlberg and the animated stuffed bear last night or some other reason, I was totally blank this morning. Thus, today’s round-up of various thoughts and news.

• Have you noticed how rarely I write about politics anymore? Maybe it’ll change when the next election heats up, but I became fatigued contributing to so much pointless bickering. And I figured no one on earth clicked onto my blog thinking, “Well, let’s see what Rodell thinks about how Anchor Babies figure into Tea Party immigration reform proposals.” So until I have something unique to say, I’m holding my fire on topics like what to do about Syria. I will say this: I miss it when Henry Kissinger was Secretary of State. Not because I believe he had any special insights. I just liked it when the name of our nation’s top peacemaker began with “Kiss.”

• We still have about 30 minutes left, but “Ted” is a riot. Val and I are loving it.

• As she has joined the swim club, I’m spending a lot of time watching our 12-year-old daughter swim laps. She’s great, already a much more accomplished swimmer than I’ll ever be. Of course, that’s not much of an achievement. I like being in water, but I dislike moving around in water. My favorite thing to do in water these days is sit in a submerged chair about neck-deep with one of those inflatable little life preservers around my glass to keep my bourbon from spilling. My favorite thing to do in water used to be skinny dipping with naked college girls. I realize that’ll never happen again. But I guess that’s the life trade-off I get in exchange for being incrementally bestowed with all this lousy wisdom.

• Apple fans are geeked over the release of new iPhones. Me, I won’t care until Apple makes an iPhone that cures all the cancers I’m convinced they cause.

• Lots of nice sentiments on-line and in the papers about the Pirates snapping a 20-year losing streak in Texas last night. I kind of feel like the team does. This is nothing to go too crazy over -- and certainly nothing to get arrested over. That’s what happened to one Pittsburgh fan who ran out onto the field after last night’s victory. The paper said nothing about his age, level of sobriety, etc. But I’ll wager he was young, drunk and stupid.

• Having said that, it’s probably a safe bet that sometime in the next year or so that drunk young idiot will get to enjoy a moonlit skinny dip with some college girls so he’s at least got that going for him.

• At this very instant, my blog stats page says there are 27 people in the U.S. reading my blog; 10 in France; 6 in Russia; 2 each in Brazil and China; and one each in Sri Lanka, Taiwan and the United Arab Emirates. The stats page is highly unreliable, but if even half of that is true then I find it very cool.

• Instead of writing about Syria, federal budget showdowns or immigration reform, in the last month or so my blog topics have included human bladder size, trans-oceanic tugs-of-war, corn puns, and Hilary Swank’s nipples. Take that, George Will.

• I disparaged that Bucco fan for running on the field last night, but I’m always chagrined they never show it on the news. I swear, watching a drunken fan trying to elude paunchy middle-aged field security guards is as entertaining as anything I’ve ever seen actual athletes do. Makes me glad they’ll always serve beer at ballgames.

• We had a tragedy in Pittsburgh Monday. A 50-year-old city police officer shot and killed his life-long best buddy in a silly bar dispute. The details are yet to emerge, but I can guarantee you it was utterly pointless. It makes me glad that me and my buddies never fight over pointless crap. And that most of my buddies keep their guns in their glove boxes.

• As I said, we still have about 30 minutes left in “Ted.” It’s uproarious fun. But if in the last half hour either or Ted or John pulls out a pistol and shoots the other I’ll be very disappointed.

• Looking for a day-brightening nostalgic listen? Hit “play” on Boz Scaggs’ “Silk Degrees” from 1976. “Lowdown,” “Lido Shuffle,” “Georgia,” “It’s Over” -- what a great catchy collection. 

• The very best fan on the field incident I can ever recall was in 1986 and it didn’t even involve a field. Then 20-year-old Darren Crowder  stole the pace car at NASCAR’s superspeedway in Talladega, Alabama -- and drove it for a one-lap joy ride with speeds up to 100 mph. I don’t know how he thought it was going to end, but here’s what I remember happening: He crossed the finish line, safely slowed to a halt, smiled and put his arms up outside the window like he was saying, “It’s all good. I was just having fun. No biggie!” Then these five or six enormous Bubbas pulled him from the vehicle and began delivering one of the most savage and methodical beatings I’ve ever seen. It was like they’d choreographed each punch. They were like railroad gandydancers taking timed turns driving the spike into granite. Had I not known the doomed recipient of the pounding was a NASCAR fan, I’d have been appalled.

• 8days2amish tweet of the week: “Told 7 year old if you squeeze coal hard enough it’ll turn into a diamond. She squeezed a piece so hard she almost made a turd.”

• Thanks for reading. There’s lots of encouraging evidence that people everywhere are enjoying the blog and referring it to friends and neighbors. There’s just no evidence it’s happening in Sri Lanka, Taiwan or the United Arab Emirates.

Related . . .

17 topics, one post, zero money: Scattergun bloggin’

Mel Gibson & other random thoughts

Happy National Nude Recreation Week!

Ahoy! When "Breaking Bad" collides with "Love Boat!"

900 words

It was 9 p.m. Sunday and Val and I were sitting down to watch the fourth to last episode of “Breaking Bad,” the AMC show that is dividing America.

The half of us who are watching can’t quit talking about what we believe is the best TV show ever; the half that couldn’t care less wishes the rest of us would just shut the hell up. 

As I said, it was 9 p.m. and savvy viewers know that is not the time to sit down and and watch quality programming. It’s a time that means we’d be subjected to about 20 minutes of momentum-busting commercials.

So we needed at least 21 minutes to let the DVR do its magic.

What to do? Meaningful conversation between married parents of two vital children being, of course, out of the question.

Val seized the remote and deftly found a recorded program about the only premise more compelling than trainloads full of methylamine being hijacked in the desert.

Yes, it was love!

“Love, exciting and new! Come aboard! We’re expecting you!”

Fans of cornball TV will recognize that as the opening line from the theme from “The Love Boat.”

She’d taped Season 1/Episode 1 of the glorious ABC cheese-fest that debuted Sept. 24, 1977. It’s now rerunning on the indispensable ME (Memorable Entertainment) TV network.

With line-ups that now include “Gilligan’s Island,” “F-Troop,’ and the original “Hawaii Five-O,” it’s becoming my go-to station whenever the other 999 channels in my Comcast package are offering unwatchable crap. 

She’d taped “Love Boat” for nostalgia sake, thinking we’d watch the intro, have a smug giggle and then move on to something cerebral.

But something surprising happened just after Capt. Merrill Stubing weighed anchor.

We were hooked.

In fact, we hadn’t felt this compelled to watch a TV show since the first time we saw Walter White’s empty khakis sailing through the New Mexico skies.

We were so enjoying the show that within minutes we were asking one another a question unique in the annals of TV debate:

Is “Love Boat” a better show than “Breaking Bad?”

First a little perspective. I’d had a really bad day -- and when I say “really bad day” I apologize to anyone in Damascus who might be taking a break from ducking bombs to read this blog.

But, geez, the Steelers lost their opener and the Pirates got blown out by the Cardinals for the third time in a row.

And I’m feeling melancholy about the conclusion of “Breaking Bad.” So all day as my teams are getting thumped I’m realizing that one or two of the characters about whom we care is bound to soon meet a violent end.

Yes, on “Breaking Bad” it’s guaranteed someone is going to get killed.

On “Love Boat” it’s guaranteed someone’s gonna get laid!

Maiden voyage guest stars included Bonnie Franklin, J.J. Walker, Meredith Baxter Birney, Suzanne Somers and Brenda Sykes.

What’s great about this show is at that moment, many of these stars were at the peak of their fame. Now, nearly 40 years later we can enjoy making cracks about the crazy Hollywood turns their lives have taken.

There was the lovely Baxter Birney playing a coquettish centerfold in love with a promising young politician. It was entertaining watching her act like a teasing heterosexual sex kitten knowing that about 30 years later after raising her family she’d become in real life a staunch lesbian.

It’s funny because back then no man could have ever pegged her for a lesbian and today she’s a lesbian no man could peg.

Then there was J.J. Walker playing an erratic ladies’ man trying to win the fair hand of sexy Brenda Sykes. Walker, as you may remember, played an erratic ladies’ man on the mid-‘70s show “Good Times,” where sexy Sykes guest starred as his girlfriend whose fair hand he was trying to win.

I tell you, “Love Boat” casting was Dy-No-Mite!

The show’s galaxy of guest stars included Sonny Bono, Loni Anderson, Tom Hanks, Barbi Benton, Andy Warhol, Gina Lollabrigida, Ernie Borgnine and Charo! Charo! Charo!

Charo, in fact, was the show’s most frequent guest star, having boarded The Boat eight times over the show’s eight-year run.

(Gratuitous Charo trivia: Legal documents in three different international venues indicate she was born alternatively in 1951, 1941 and 1931.)

So now we’re hooked. I’m sure we’ll watch regularly to monitor the guest stars, the ludicrous plots and try and discern if Adam Bricker, the four-times married ship’s doctor, ever once needed the eye chart on conspicious display in his examination room.

We watched about 30 minutes before switching to watch “Breaking Bad,” which left us absolutely devastated.

So we rebounded by immediately watching the rest of “Love Boat!” It was great!

I can’t tell you how euphoric it felt to watch a show about a cruise ship where every single passenger left happy -- and not just because it didn’t sink and managed to make it back to port under its own power.

So which show’s better?

On this Monday morning, it’s difficult to say.

All I know this, the greatest show ever would be one where the cast of “Breaking Bad” set sail on “The Love Boat.” That cast is due for a little lovin’ and levity.

I wonder if Charo’s free.

Related . . .

Reunited: TV and me

TV-holics prepare for bender

A “Breaking Bad” intervention

Re-run Sunday: Solution to NFL over-officiating, armless linemen!

Even the Vegas experts don't know who'll win and lose today, the first full day of NFL games for the 2013 season. But here's one thing we all know: there will be blown calls, there will be controversy, there will be long timeouts while the feckless refs hide under the replay hoods. So in honor of the start of the new season, here's my 2011 ideas on how to reduce the over-officiating that is ruining the game. Enjoy the day and  . . . Go Steelers!

It was another weekend of the ruling elite infuriating the 99 percent of Americans who feel helpless about doing anything in the face of tyrannical oppression.

I’m talking about the officiating in the NFL.

We can disagree about income disparity, presidential politics and whether God’s playing favorites with the Denver Broncos because Tim Tebow’s such a Savior suck up (my take, “Jesus, Tebow’s a winner”).

But I think we can all agree NFL over-officiating is ruining the game. Calls are excessive and confusing and now every scoring play is under review. That makes sense until you realize the next logical step is reviewing goal line plays that don’t involve scoring but, upon further review, might have.

Some fans say this is good because getting it right is essential.

Well, no, it isn’t. If it was, we’d have cameras isolating every single player to ensure they weren’t committing an infraction.

What’s essential is getting it as close to right as possible without making the games last even longer than they already do.

You may not have noticed amidst all the beer and truck commercials, but the typical 3:15 minute football broadcast has just 11 minutes of action.

That’s right. This January 2010 Wall Street Journal report found the ball is in play for just 11 minutes. That means for every 60-minute game we’re getting 49 minutes of foreplay.

That’s a lot of teasing anticipation for a game that considers itself manly.

Speaking of foreplay, let me get to the point and -- fear not -- this won’t take long. I’m one to talk when it comes to delivering a full 11 minutes of satisfying action.

I have several radical solutions to over-officiating.

First, get rid of instant replay and all but two officials -- one for the offense, one for the defense -- and ask the players to agree to play under the honor system.

That means if a player commits a foul, he needs to raise his hand and confess his sins. Then he needs to apologize to the player he’s victimized while one of the two referees steps off the penalty yardage.

Introducing a player honor system would flip the culture of showboating and finger pointing on its head and provide exemplary role models for an America starving for them.

My friend Ron at the bar has a good suggestion. He usually does. In fact, he’s the inspiration for many of these posts. If Ron ever decides to give full sobriety a shot I might have to spend half my time blogging about something like gardening.

He suggests changing the rules so the only time a penalty is called is when a player uses both hands. This would eliminate many questionable calls.

But this has about as much chance of succeeding as does players conforming to the honor system -- although it would be hilarious to see the reaction to insufferable goody-goody Roger Goodell announcing the change.

Using just one hand goes against a lineman’s nature. We need something to ensure a player can’t use either hand in blocking.

We need armless linemen.

Every 11 man squad should have five lineman who for the good of the game have either lost or had team-approve doctors sever the limbs above the elbow.

I haven’t looked into, but I imagine there is a deep pool of armless and otherwise able-bodied men who have fought and sacrificed in our recent wars.

The flag wavers at the NFL should jump on this. This would be giving our disabled vets a place to excel where we can honor their service and allow them to be shining examples that nothing can stop men so motivated.

And think of what it would do to our fighting forces. Imagine the heroic risks they’d take on the battlefield if just the right injury might lead to a spot on an NFL roster.

I offer this idea knowing full well it is controversial and will be picked apart by critics who fail to realize NFL over-officiating is killing the game.

I’m going to spend the rest of the day trying to resolve some of the more obvious questions.

And I promise to get right back to you as soon as I figure out how an armless center can snap a football.

I'm seeking a 25-year-old friend

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I plan on spending the next few months or so seeing if I can find a friendly 25 year old eager to spend time with me. We’ll squander hours in the bar giggling and yapping about all sorts of things.

And, sorry ladies, but my new buddy has got to be a guy.

I abide by the matrimonial conventions that say it’s a bad idea for a guy like me to devote free time to a 25-year-old girl. More than than, my wife abides them. We both understand it’d be controversial for me to say, “Oh, hey, hon, Britney and I are going bowling tonight. Don’t wait up.”

So it’s got to be a dude.

There are two reasons I find myself on this quest: This year I turned 50 and Joe turned 75.

Fifty is a take-stock birthday. It inspires you to think about where you’ve been, where you’re going and all the fun friendlies who’ve been riding shot gun all along the way.

Joe turning 75 was something else.

He’s one of the seven bar Joes (remember we’re down a Joe since Baseball Joe sadly passed away in June). He’s at once the oldest Joe and the most childish one. He’s rarely serious, is great with cartoon sound effects and makes outrageously filthy comments about girls the local TV stations hire to convey news about things like traffic jams on the Parkway East.

So, of course, I love him. He’s just a great guy. We golf and drink together a good bit and he helped me put the new bathroom floor in a couple of months ago.

It gave me pause when he turned 75 a few months ago. I thought, “Wow. One of my best buddies is ancient.”

It struck me as unusual. Then I got to thinking about it and I realized in my life it’s been anything but. I’ve always been friends with colorful old men.

Sure, most of them have been cranky bartenders, but their perspectives have really enriched my life. They share their insights on history, culture and what it was like when women stopped wearing bras and started using the pill.

And the neat symmetry of me turning 50 and Joe turning 75 got me to thinking how beneficial it is to have friendships spread out over the quarter century marks.

Let’s start with babies, as good a place to start as there’s ever been. I adore holding babies.

I don’t have any babies in my life right now, but our daughters, ages 12 and 7, must still either give in to my demands for compulsory cuddling or else submit to up to 10 minutes of vicious tickling.

On the other extreme, I am good friends with at least one 100 year old. He may be 98 or so, but once you’re north of 90 it’s okay to round up.

He’s the famous Angelo Cammarata, the Guinness World Record holder for longest serving bartender. I encourage you to read the link about him from last year when the Pittsburgh Steelers honored this monumental man (that's him up top).

I remember once asking him what the best years of his long life were, and I’ll never forget his answer, which he gave after a long, thoughtful pause.

“To me, the years from between when I was 40 to 75 were just really great.”

Oh, I love that man.

And 50-year-old friends? Hell, I have a glut of them.

But 25 year old friendships have somehow become a vacancy. I could probably meet more 25 year olds, but then I’d have to go to places where I don’t like the music, the bartenders or most of the 25 year olds there whose evident tastelessness has rendered them beyond my help.

I guess I’m at an age where I’m feeling restless to share some of the lessons I’ve learned.

I see so many young people of that age consumed with ambition, uncertainties over romance and employment, and confusion over whether music will ever improve.

I want to tell them to relax, that everything’s going to work out all right. Well, everything but music which has been in steep decline since 1986.

Maybe what I’m really wishing I could do is send the 50-year-old me back in time to talk to the 25-year-old version.

I’d tell him that he’s going to spend a good bit of the next quarter century worrying about money, status and other things that don’t matter. And if he’d only understand how blissful his life will be if his only concerns are the well-being of his friends and the ones he loves.

And if 25 years from now, Val and I are grandparents to newborns and I can still sit in that bar and hear my 100-year-old buddy Joe tell filthy jokes about the pretty traffic girls I’ll know I was right.

Related . . .

Ang Cammarata: A great fan, a better man

The Pond loses a really good Joe

Grammy Thoughts: Recall all music since 1986

A galling story on useless body parts

All we are saying is give corn puns a chance

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I dreamt last night I was at my articulate best as I addressed for hours on end acres and acres of highly attentive corn that hung on my every word.

Yes, the audience was all ears.

I say that’s a contender for the corniest pun ever.

Right now many of you are probably thinking of the famous quote that “puns are the lowest form of humor.”

Every time I hear that line I think the person who coined it must have died before Adam Sandler began making movies.

And I was correct. The quote is attributed to American wit Oscar Levant who died in 1972, 35 years before Sandler released “I Now Pronounce You Chuck & Larry.”

Some say it was Wisconsin columnist Doug Larson, but I’m going with Levant for reasons of regional prejudice. Yes, Levant was a Pittsburgher. More about him in a bit.

So why disparage the pun?

Is it because deciphering some puns require thought?

For instance: “Chances of getting rope aficionados to call themselves ‘Knotsies’ are about the same as getting florists to say they’re petalphiles.”

It’s a very daring pun, isn’t it? And appreciating it requires a limber intellect and by that I mean it’s not the kind of joke you’d tell Donald Trump, a man who looks like his idea of funny is the reaction he gets every time he evicts a widow.

I’m being honest when I say it took me about six months to think that one up. Understand, I wasn’t standing in a room wearing a lab coat and drawing schematic puns on a great big chalk board all that time.

No, but once it dawned on me a phonetic spelling of Nazis could look like something people who loved rope tricks would appreciate, it began to fester.

Compared to that triumph, it was fairly easy to declare any savage who feasts on human flesh but insists on dainty portions be called a “cannibler.”

I like coming up with grammar puns: “A person who believes in the Socialistic use of unnecessary punctuation is a commanist.”

I like Stooge-based puns: “A mohawk is an unconventional hairstyle. A Moe Hawk is an irrationally angry bird that inflicts cartoon violence on a Curley Hawk.”

Tree puns have a place, believing as I do that romantic trees can never be “too sappy.”

I sometimes have an itch for culinary puns such as: “Chefs with rashes are always busy cooking from scratch.”

I even like porn puns: “It’s surprising more male adult film actors aren’t described as ‘swell.’”

How I’ve never heard of Oscar Levant until today is a mystery.

Born in Pittsburgh in 1906, this composer, author, pianist, actor was a man of apparent brilliance. His abrasive wit on a 1930s and ‘40s national radio quiz show made him a coast-to-coast sensation.

John Kieran, a fellow panelist, said Levant had “a positive genius for making offhand cutting remarks that couldn’t have been sharper if he’d honed them a week in his mind.”

His most prominent film role was in 1951’s “An American in Paris” with fellow Pittsburgher Gene Kelly.

His unshackled ribaldry led to controversy in 1956 when news that Marilyn Monroe had converted to Judaism after marrying playwright Arthur Miller, causing Levant remark on live TV, “Now that Marilyn Monroe is kosher, I guess it’s okay for Arthur Miller to eat her.”

As naughty puns go, that one is downright delicious.

Levant, later defended himself saying, “I hadn’t meant it that way.”

The scamp.

Back then a really good racy pun could spark controversy. Today it takes Miley Cyrus and her big foam finger.

Kind of makes you wonder what it’ll take to be controversial in the year 2063, doesn’t it?

It was Levant who is credited with first saying, “A pun is the lowest form of humor . . .”

But few know that what Levant said next was, “. . .but just when you don’t think of it first.”

So there.

I hope this nimble little dissertation convinces you to shuck your inhibitions about reveling in really corny puns.

Because now you know there’s no truth to the belief that puns are the lowest form of humor.

No truth at all.

Not so much as a single kernel.

Related . . .

Pittsburgh needs a Gene Kelly statue

“Lone Ranger,” “Grown Ups II” and what’s wrong with Hollywood

Kate Upton in Latrobe! When a supermodel comes to town

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It was early morning last Thursday and I’d already said “Hey!” to three familiars at the local convenience mart before I’d even peeled my breakfast banana.

It promised to be a real heyday.

And so it was. Everywhere I went I saw someone I knew. I saw plumbers, postal workers, realtors, bankers, librarians, radio announcers, bread truck delivery drivers and four or five local bartenders.

They were uniformly smiling and friendly. 

That’s why I feel ashamed to admit I’d have chucked them all for a little face time with Kate Upton.

I found out later that day she was in Latrobe for a golf lesson with Arnold Palmer.

I guess she must already know how to blog.

Upton, 21, is the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue cover model for two consecutive years. She is a consensus choice as one of the world’s most beautiful women. 

So I’m chagrined I didn’t get a good long gawk at the babe.

The strange thing is I really don’t know why.

I guess I just wanted to see the elephant.

That’s an expression you don’t hear too much anymore. At one time in rural 19th century America the term “see the elephant” meant packing up the family and driving the wagon great distances to attend a traveling circus that featured an authentic pachyderm.

Anyone who’d seen the elephant would have a certain worldliness bestowed upon them.

I guess that’s what I’d have done if I’d have known Upton was drinking in the Marriott SpringHill Suites Thursday night, as she was indeed. One of my friends at the bar accused me of knowing and selfishly keeping the news to myself.

“Now, you know I’d never do a thing like that,” I lied.

“Yeah, I guess so. I’m sorry,” he lied right back.

But would I have kept the news to myself? Probably.

Let’s examine for a moment what might have happened had I been tipped off that one of the world’s most desirable women was just down the street.

First of all, I would have flossed and brushed my teeth. You can’t make a good impression with a chunk of chicken lodged between the upper right lateral and cuspid teeth.

I’d have stripped off my “Denny’s Beer Barrel Pub” t-shirt promoting the world’s biggest hamburger, opting instead for a snazzy Tommy Bahama. I love Denny’s, but she doesn’t have the figure of a woman who looks like she’d be interested in hearing about the time I attempted to eat a 96-ounce meat monster.

Let’s assume, too, it’s later at night and she’s still at the bar. She’s alone.

Me, too!

Maybe I would have sat one discreet stool away from her. It’s likely I’d know the bartender there so I’d receive a warm greeting that would signal to her I’m cool.

We’d make brief eye contact and she might say, “Hi! I’m Kate.”

I’d say, “Hello, I’m Chris. And I know who you are. You’re one of the world’s most beautiful women. You’re in Latrobe to get a golf lesson from Arnold Palmer. He’s a friend of mine. In fact, he provided the gushy cover endorsement for my book, ‘Use All The Crayons! The Colorful Guide to Simple Human Happiness.’”

Maybe she’d ask if I had a copy in my car. 

Maybe I’d tell her I just happened to have one right here in this gift-wrapped package with “To Kate” written on the tag.

Maybe she’d excitedly open it, read the inscription, blush, and wonder just how on earth I knew her favorite color was orange.

Just a lucky guess, maybe I’d say.

Maybe we’d have a few drinks and maybe she’d invite me to come up to her room to read her some of my book aloud.

Who knows? Maybe that’s exactly what would have happened.

More likely this would have:

I’d have walked into the lobby and seen her sitting there looking lovely and said to myself, “Yep, that’s Kate Upton, all right.”

I wouldn’t have said anything to her. I wouldn’t have taken her picture or asked for her autograph.

For me, just seeing the elephant would have been enough.

It’d be unrealistic to think I’d ever be one of those guys who gets to climb on up and take a ride on the thing.

Related . . .

My night with Julia Roberts

Enjoying a good, long jump with Playboy Playmate Claire Sinclair

America’s biggest hamburger and America’s biggest ham

Why it's time to change Labor Day to Leisure Day

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If anyone thinks by blogging on Labor Day I’m engaging in actual labor they know even less about blogging than they do about labor.

About the only things farther from labor than blogging involve sex and sleeping -- and as soon as I learn how to comfortably blog while lying flat on my back even that point will be moot.

Blogging is something I enjoy, something that releases rather than causes tension and something I sometimes do while eating Lucky Charms.

True labor involves none of those things.

Americans have been celebrating Labor Day since 1894, back when I’ll wager at least 80 percent of the population was engaged in actual productive labor. Men tilled the earth, they shoveled coal into fiery furnaces, they sawed timber by hand.

It wasn’t any easier for the fairer sex, many of whom had to drag heavy buckets of water from distant wells to their homes to use in tedious cooking and cleaning procedures. They made by hand their own family clothes and baked everything from scratch with ingredients they’d harvest or butcher themselves.

Many of them did this in lonely solitude without even the comfort of Ellen DeGeneres riffing in the background.

Life was dangerous and often endlessly grim.

Today I’d be hard-pressed to think of anyone who works as hard as their grandfathers did. Heck, it’s difficult to think of anyone who works as hard as their grandmothers did.

I think it’s time we changed Labor Day to Leisure Day, a celebration about how much easier life’s become.

I’m confused why we still celebrate a day dedicated to working when nearly everyone I know spends his or her time either moaning about having to work or scheming plans that’ll ensure they get out of having to work.

Labor Day just seems anachronistic in so many ways.

The lone example of people who still labor as hard as our forebears are women who, ironically, are engaged in the act of labor.

Ever seen it?

It’s impossible to imagine more arduous work. There’s sweat, blood, pain and primal screams in a gut-wrenching ordeal that can last as long as 20 hours.

A woman in labor is truly working her butt off -- and if you’ve ever witnessed the procedure that phrase is in some ways more descriptive than metaphorical. It’s a wonder.

And that’s for women who’re being coached by supportive spouses and friends.

Some women have neither.

My wife had it worst of all. She had me heckling her.

It’s true. Not wanting her to lose her edge, I stood there, arms folded, saying things like, “Don’t you think you’re being just a tad over-dramatic?” And screaming, “Enough with all these damn theatrics! Push! Push! Push, you filthy whore, you!”

If we’re going to keep celebrating Labor Day maybe we should all do away with the picnics, the badminton, the cookouts and all the other leisure activities and for at least one day a year all go to work.

We could get together as communities and dig flood control drainage ditches, clean up vacant lots, help stabilize the porch railing for the old neighbor lady -- do some actual labor that involves breaking a sweat.

It would be a respectful nod to the people who came before us and helped literally pave the way for our pleasant lives of comparative leisure.

Of course, you can still feel free to enjoy your Labor Day in the traditional way.

Laboring on Labor Day is just a suggestion.

It’s nothing to get all worked up over.

Related . . .

My magnificent life of impoverished leisure

Worked to death

Priorities: Work or cheap beer baseball?