A D-Day story on Ike, Blue Angels & Arnold Palmer

(803 words)

This is the one weekend a year when every dog, bird and woodland creature walks around with the very same WTF? expression.

The Blue Angels are in town!

Or not.

More on that in a bit.

It’s the Westmoreland County Airshow at the Arnold Palmer Regional Airport. It’s a big deal and draws tens of thousands of people to Latrobe. Headlined by the U.S. Navy Blue Angels, it’s one hell of a show.

It’s difficult to comprehend how mutually thrilling and unnerving it is to have a team of F/A-18 Hornets tearing holes in the sky a couple hundred feet above your head.

If you’re inside, you run outside to catch a glimpse. I did this maybe 100 times yesterday afternoon when I was working from home..

One flew so close I swear the papers on the table fluttered.

The dog kept looking up at me in confused fright. I’d try and explain to him that the world isn’t coming to an end, but a dog who doesn’t understand TV commercials — how do we all know without speaking to simultaneously get up and go do our things when a Bud ad comes on? — certainly wouldn’t understand supersonic jet propulsion so why bother?

Dave and I wondered during lunch yesterday how long it would take a jet flying at 600 mph to fly 42 miles from Latrobe to Pittsburgh.

He calculated it would take four minutes. I wondered if that included the typical traffic delay outside the Squirrel Hill Tunnel.

It’s all everyone’s talking about.

It’s so exciting I asked Val if last night she wanted to go up to the Arnold Palmer SpringHill Marriott Suites hotel and try and pick up a pilot.

She did.

In this regard, I’m maybe the world’s most understanding husband. She’s borne being married to me with patience and good cheer, mostly, for 17 years and rarely complains about my career never taking off.

I feel it’s only fair to give her a shot at being with a guy whose whole existence is all about taking off.

So she was disappointed when we got to the snazzy hotel bar and learned the Blue Angels weren’t staying there. They were all staying at a hotel in Greensburg 10 miles away.

Argue all you want about the Bowe Bergdahl situation, but I contend not having the Blue Angels stay in the Arnold Palmer hotel where AP wants them is the bigger intelligence failure.

I’m pretty certain Arnold Palmer is disappointed we don’t stay at his hotel more — and we have a home here!

He’s eager for people to patronize the hotel, play his golf course, drink his tea, etc. And it’s just good manners to do so because, c’mon, it’s Arnold Palmer!

Just the other day I saw pictures posted of the Blue Angels at his office paying homage to maybe the only human being they know is cooler than themselves.

But they won’t stay at his hotel?

If you’re a U.S. serviceman or woman out for a frolic on the government tab and this ever happens to you, let me explain the protocol of how to react if you’re ever in town. You say, “I’d like to stay in Arnold Palmer’s house.” 

If he says no — and he might not — then ask if you can stay at one of his guest properties at Latrobe C.C.

If those are booked, ask if he’ll let you stay at his hotel. It’s very nice. I’m sure he’ll be fine with that.

What you don’t do is spend Arnold Palmer’s tax dollars at the Greensburg Ramada.

Today’s the 70th anniversary of the D-Day invasion and the guy primarily responsible for winning what was the most consequential victory in the history of mankind went out of his way to surprise Palmer at his home on Palmer’s 37th birthday.

And Ike, a man who knew a thing or two about tricky logistics, showed up at the Palmer house and asked if Palmer could “put an old soldier up for the night.”

Palmer was caught completely by surprise.

He shouldn’t feel bad.

So was Hitler.

This is all happening the day after former Blue Angel commander Gregory McWherter was found guilty of conduct charges involving pornography, sexual harassment and failure to stop lecherous behavior in the workplace.

It’s my understanding that those were some of the same illicit incidentals armed forces recruiters once used to get men to enlist. Now they’re using those same reasons to end their careers.

My, how times change.

Anyway, here in Latrobe we’re looking forward to a great show, and I’m confident the illustrious unit will correct its leadership issues and the team will fly right.

As they’re going directly over the top of my home at 600 mph I can only pray they do.

Related . . .

The day Arnold Palmer’s people offered me a $70,000 a year job

So what’s Arnold Palmer really like?

My work week sabotaged by Blue Angel distractions

Our 2.9 mile vacation

Arnold Palmer gave me boogies on Monday

"Sound" fathering at 22 mph

(693 words)

It’s a 2.3 mile drive between my house and my 13-year-old daughter’s middle school. I can drive it in 5 minutes and 34 seconds, which means I can start playing the 1969 studio version of the Rolling Stones “Let It Bleed” and we can hear the whole thing before I drop her off.

That allows me time to explain that the song was a lyrical counterpoint to the Beatles preceding release, “Let It Be” and that the bands were really friends who saw commercial benefits to playing off a perceived good/bad rivalry.

But the drive rarely takes 5:34. I usually tailor it to the song I want Josie to hear on the days I drive her to school. Tomorrow’s the last day.

She hasn’t caught on, but I without fail dawdle on the drive so we can hear in its entirety the one song I have cued up just for her.

So in the last few weeks the drive has taken 5:59 (“Mother Blues,” Ray Wylie Hubbard, 2012), 6:06 (“Point Blank,” Bruce Springsteen, 1980), and 6:31 (“Calling Elvis,” Dire Straits, 1991).

My unrealized goal was to stretch the time out so luxuriously that it’d take us 11 minutes and 22 seconds to drive 2.3 miles so she can hear without interruption Bob Dylan’s 1965 epic “Desolation Row” from start to finish.

The overt goal, obviously, is to expose her to what I consider good songs by essential bands. So our drive soundtracks have included Van Morrison, Kinks, Tom Petty, Chuck Berry, Johnny Cash, Elton John, Joe Ely, The Who — all the usual suspects.

It was a few months ago she asked me if I wouldn’t mind driving her on days when for study reasons she wanted to arrive earlier than the bus. It was no imposition for me to leave the office and head back home for purposes of education.

Heck, for her it’d be no imposition for me to leave the office and take her to Poughkeepsie for purposes of yogurt.

What surprised me was just how much soulful parenting you can do in those jiffy little drives. Because we talk about school, teachers, relationships, ambitions, dealing with disappointment and what happened on that day in history (I check the paper before picking her up). 

Sometimes the songs have a message. I’ll play George Harrison’s “All Those Years Ago” and tell her about the life and death of John Lennon.

We talked about dreams — hers and Martin Luther King Jr.’s — on April 4 when I played U2’s “Pride (In The Name of Love).”

Other times it’s just about great rock ’n’ roll.

If this makes it sound like I’m never around or am distant when I am, I swear that’s not the case. She and I have a great relationship and enjoy many Daddy/daughter adventures at ballparks and in the woods.

But unless the power goes out, we are increasingly separated by electronic filters. She’s on her iPhone or me on my Mac. Or the TV’s on.

But there in that old car I have her full attention and she’s now conditioned to open up. She’s knows I’m a good listener in ways that have nothing to do with what’s coming out the speakers.

Maybe it all seems so precious because I know she’ll soon obey biological imperatives and want little to do with me. She won’t want to hear my insights, share her feelings or maybe not even be seen with me.

When I think of it that way, it’s a wonder I ever slow the vehicle down enough for her to make a safe exit. I should just keep driving her around listening to great tunes until the year 2022.

I guess the lesson here is opportunities to teach and love the people you care about can emerge when you least expect them. And for me it’s been tooling along the road at about 22 mph while listening to a 4/4 beat.

So as Father’s Day approaches notable civic organizations can keep their prestigious “Father of the Year” awards.

I’m content being the father of the five or six minute commute.

Related . . .

Marching on Gettysburg with daughter, 12

Taking pregnant women to the ol’ ball game

Daughter, 4, thinks dad works too much

Daughter, 7, says Bible says I have to love our stupid dog

Life altering music for the needy and the stupid

What happened at last week's Spelling Bee

(981 words)

There was a brief moment when I thought of asking the nervous third graders to spell “mahankali,” “snigdha,” “sukanya,” and “shivashankar.”

Those weren’t approved spelling words.

They are some of the names of recent National Spelling Bee winners.

I didn’t do it because I didn’t want to do anything that might stir controversy at the Greensburg Chapter Rotary sponsored spelling bee for 30 top students from the Greensburg Salem and Hempfield Area school districts last Thursday.

Yet controversy is what we nearly had.

It was all over a common word, a noun, that every single adult I’ve since tested it on failed to spell properly.

I’ll get to that, but first I want to share some of things that go through the mind of the designated word master as he or she reads the words aloud to 8 and 9 year olds standing on an elementary school stage before about 100 parents, teachers and supporters.

First was this: Never, ever move your lips like you’re spelling the words you just said aloud when the kid is staring straight at you. Adhering to this commonsense benchmark was incredibly difficult because the children were so darling. Many of them were very nervous and I wanted them all to succeed.

Yes, I was hoping I’d preside over the very first spelling bee to end in a 30-way tie.

Ribbons and trophies for all the kiddies!

In my pre-bee preparation I’d tried to emulate Caesar Flickerman, the flamboyant Stanley Tucci character who hosts “The Hunger Games.” I wanted to be ingratiating, fun and put the children at ease. And having for two hours a captive audience usually brings out the ham in me.

It’s a tribute to the gravity of the situation that I didn’t make even one stupid joke.

Instead, I was incredibly disciplined. This rare burst of appropriate behavior emerged because I right away realized I was part of a very professional team of judges and Rotary facilitators who were eager to ensure this bee flew right — and if you’ve seen bees fly you’ll know that’s an ambitious goal.

During the first round I’d greet the students with a smile and say, “Your word is ‘mark.’” Then I’d say it in a sentence, “I accidentally made a mark on Joe’s paper.”

Words from the first round included “grow,” “bark,” “skip,” “kick,” and “crop.”

There was no bell in this bee. Instead one of the judges held one of two signs; one read, “Correct,” the other, “Incorrect.”

We sailed through the Round 3 until we got to the word “autumn,” and a girl transposed the “m” with the “n.” I knew right then she’d go the rest of her life despising the word, if not the whole damn season.

If I had been Caesar Flickerman and this had been “The Hunger Games” I’d have had a big lever beside me and have pulled it triggering a trap door beneath the speller and sending her into a void from which there’d be no return.

Instead I just stared at her with a consoling little smile and watched her sadly walk away.

Man, did I want to give her a hug. I felt so bad for each of them as one-by-one I had a role in shattering their dream of winning glory, a trophy, a free iPad and a chance to ride in the Rotary car during the July Fourth parade.

The departed left on Round 5 words like “temperament,” “lieutenant,” “caricature,” and licorice.”

We were at it for 90 minutes and my feet were starting to hurt. Still, about half were still going strong in Round 7 with words like “chandelier,” “limousine,” “buoyant,” and “aerodynamic.”

I’d read through 223 words by the time my word book moved into uncharted territory. I announced to the students and the audience: “We are now entering the Bonus Round. You will now be asked to spell words you’ve not had a chance to study.”

There were six students left and I’m not exaggerating when I say it was the most tension-filled room I’ve been in since my wife gave birth.

The situation was ripe for controversy — and I don’t mean “controversy” was one of the spelling words, although for the sake of irony I’d have enjoyed it if “controversy” had led to bee controversy.

No, the word was the name of a state.

It doesn’t matter which one, because I’d wager none of you would spell it correctly either, as did none of the 20 or so people I’ve since asked.

It was Pennsylvania.

The boy spelled it “P E N N S Y L V A N I A,” which is under any other circumstances the proper way to spell Pennsylvania.

Just not in an official spelling bee when it is supposed to be spelled “Capital P ENNSYLVANIA.”

But the judge had held up the “Correct” sign at the spelling and the boy sat down and watched the next three students — the last three students — misspell “syringe,” “zephyr,” and “ventriloquist.”

That’s when after some conferring the judges realized their error, as unfair as it was. Had I been more experienced I’d have had the savvy to skip what in hindsight looks like a dirty trick question.

I explained their decision and told the boy he had to make the walk of shame. 

But it all worked out in the end. The judges decided it would have been an unjust conclusion and invited the boy and the last three dismissees back to the stage to have another go.

And the Pennsylvanian won!

Well, we were all Pennsylvanians, but I think you know what I mean.

I had so much fun I hope they’ll have me back again next year and I’m going to promote my services to spelling bee organizers in states from Maine to California

I think doing so is a capital idea.

Related . . .

Searching for Mr. Stupid

Chris Rodell, Word Master! I’m boss of the bee

Expense accounting the National Spelling Bee

The long, true story of my epic Game 7

Taking my BRF (Bitchy Resting Face) for a walk

(835 words)

I was in the middle of a 1.5 mile forced march along a desolate stretch of highway when it occurred to me I really ought to be smiling even though there was no real reason to smile.

It was humid. Sweat was pouring off me. I was on the way to retrieve my car from the repair shop which was charging me $246 to repair the brakes and rotors and I was internally grumbling that the busted AC was going to remain busted after the mechanic told me it’d cost $770 to repair.

“It’s the condenser and those things aren’t cheap,” he said.

Then we are at AC loggerheads because even though condensers aren’t cheap, I am. I can’t see paying that much for AC as long as the windows roll down and my barber excels at bestowing nice tight haircuts that appear presentable no matter the weather conditions.

So why was I thinking I ought to be smiling?

Because my friend Jim does.

He’s an old buddy from my Nashville Banner days and he runs marathons. That’s not unusual. Many of us are familiar with fitness buffs who endure extreme conditioning.

But Jim makes sure he does it with a smile on his face.

He posted a picture of himself smiling at mile 22, a marathon benchmark when many other runners are either vomiting or appearing miserable.

He said he was doing something he enjoyed and wanted observers to know by the look on his face that he was having fun.

“I have to remind myself to do it, but I think it sets a good example.”

I’m reminded of Jim every time someone sees me in public and says I look really pissed off.

Happened again last week when I was crossing the street to come into the bar. 

Now, when I walk into a bar, especially The Pond, I’m usually approaching peak happiness. My cares dissipate. I’m looking forward to laughter. People are happy to see me. I’m often surprised my entrance isn’t accompanied by showers of confetti.

That’s why I was surprised when one of my buddies said, “What’s wrong with you? We saw you crossing the street and you looked like you were ready to kill someone.”

“No, I’m fine, really,” I said. “I was just lost in thought.”

“What were you thinking about?”

“About how finding, securing and putting a rabbit into a hat requires just as much if not more magic as pulling it out of one.”

It’s something to think about next time you see my wife and wonder how come she’s not smiling.

I’ve heard what I guess is my condition sardonically described as BRF (Bitchy Resting Face). It started out as a “Funny or Die” video, but it’s now an appearance disorder being heralded by plastic surgeons eager to find another way to enrich themselves by preying upon the ever-descending self-image pop culture inflicts on us all.

They’re doing “expression surgeries” so BRFers like myself can appear more sunny when we’re standing at places like bus stops.

I was conflicted about grinning on my walk. It was no metaphorical walk in the park. It was down a desolate stretch of highway littered with trash and raccoon roadkill. I passed only one lone pedestrian and he wasn’t smiling either. He wasn’t exactly friendly, but he was at least informative. He said, “Watch out, there’s a bunch of needles up near the cloverleaf.”

So this was no barefoot tiptoe through the tulips.

I considered smiling and deemed it inappropriate.

I imagined people would see me and say, “Well, lookee there. It’s Rodell, on foot and grinning like an idiot. I guess he finally got his DUI. He’s probably already drunk right now and it’s only 2 p.m. ... Jackass.”

But it’s also different for me because I’ve authored a book that purports to be able to make readers happy.

Maybe someone sees me walking down the street with my BRF and says, “Would you look at that miserable bastard. That’s the guy whose book is supposed to teach ME how to be happy? I was going to buy one of his stupid books just to be nice, but I think I’ll just take that $15.95 up there to adult book store and splurge on some cheap porn.”

I’m proud of my book and believe in its message, but I’d have a real difficult time arguing the point if it’s ever put to me the way it is in that hypothetical.

I guess what I’m saying is if you see me trudging along some mean stretch of hypodermic-strewn highway and all you notice is my bitchy resting face, know I’m grinning somewhere deep inside

And if under those same conditions you see me beaming sunshine, you can surmise I’ve taken the admirable advice of my good friend and decided to let all the world know I’ll meet all its many marathon challenges head-on and with warmth and cheer.

Either that or I’m already good and drunk.

Related . . .

No AC making me cool

The vanishing stigma of typpos 

Honked off about Egyptian nose jobs

My one-man neighborhood trash crusade

Results of my weekend crashes, my computer/my car

Best tweets from last month

I know, I know. What kind of blogger starts the week off with a lame Twitter round-up? Well, my car’s getting worked on and I might not be able to post anything else until near dinner. So I had to at least show up today. Not posting anything might cause the blogger federation to launch an investigation.

These are all from 8days2amish.

• #JohnLennon imagined a world at peace. I imagine how different people's faces would look if our eyeballs were squares.

• I’m thinking of forming a really shitty Fab Four tribute band. "Ladies and gentleman, please give a warm welcome to ... The Dung Beatles!"

• Many people pray to God without ever realizing how many God-like powers we all possess. With just one word we can make or ruin someone's day.

• We’ve all heard of gators being flushed and growing in sewers to terrifying sizes. Anyone wonder what’s happening to all the #stinkbugs ?

• The wave of vast emptiness I felt realizing that Mick is 70 and will one day die eased somewhat with the realization Keith never will.

• Daughter, 13, just texted me she is bored spending time at grandpa's. I advised her to set something on fire.

• When Kris Kristofferson sings about Bobby McGee, it's about a woman. When Janis does, it's a dude. Question: Is Bobby McGee a hermaphrodite?

• Being happy isn’t as important as always trying to be happy. Happiness can be taken away. Always trying is what makes happy a habit.

• I’d like to see a reality show about former reality show stars desperately clinging to fame by pitching new reality shows.

• #Nostradamus used his visionary mind to predict the future. A seer who does the same thing using only a keen sense of smell is Nostrildamus.

• Surprised Conservatives angry about global warming proponents haven't demanded Beach Boys renounce their "Endless Summer" album.”

• Swore it wouldn't happen. Swore they wouldn't wear me down. Wrong! I now think I'm being witty when I ask people, "What's in your wallet?”

• Supreme Court allows #publicprayer at municipal meetings. Oh, goody. I’m sure politicians will immediately cease acting like craven jerks.

• Physicians who share waiting rooms often try each others' patients.

• Tomorrow NFL commish Goodell will euphorically hug large men with whom he has nothing in common & will soon anger with fines & suspensions

• Americans Against Stupid Silent Letters unite! It's no longer Wednesday. Let's all make it Wensday! (this message brought to you by AASSL)

• I humbly try and include at least one deliberate typo in everything I write lest people think I'm too perfict.

• Making a good first impression important, but I’ve found the ones who make best impression are ones who at first make barely any impression

• I’d like to be a fly on the wall when flies on the wall discuss their bafflement over why any human would ever want to be a fly on the wall

• I hope tonight Roger Goodell greets one top draftee so exuberantly he has to fine himself for an excessive celebration. 

• Technological advances combined with desperate bookkeeping mean many people today rob Peter to PayPal.

• Skeptical parents’ refusal to get kids inoculated against infectious diseases is turning measles into youasles. 

• A good shower is about as close to returning to the womb as we can get without inconveniencing Mom.

• How massive is my ego? When daughter, 13, is in car texting to friends I believe she is writing, "My Daddy is the greatest!”

• I have to think giraffe parents take it far more seriously than human counterparts when they catch giraffe teenagers necking.

• You’d think from today's Facebook every mom's a saint. Nope. One of these days I'm going to write a book, "Famous Sons of Famous Bitches.”

• Naming a baby boy "Les" is fraught with pitfalls. He could be Les Moore, Les White, Les Hart. I wonder if anyone's ever named a son Fewer.

• I’d vow to never have more fun than a barrel of monkeys if I can be assured it'll never result in the inhumane cruelty of barreled monkeys

• How come doctors don't prescribe laughing gas for patients in "serious" condition?

• I wonder if Noah had a momentary crisis of faith when he saw two stink bugs approaching the ark.

• I wonder if Caveman upon first seeing his reflection thought he was repugnant or said, “My God, I’m gorgeous!”

• I know a secret! I know why there's a hole in donuts. I think I'll let the suspense on this one build until it's fit to bust.

• If I were a marine biologist I’d try and get my colleagues to call a school of fish a campus.

• “Caught in a world of uphill climbin’, tears are in my eyes an’ nothin’ is rhymin’!” Oh, Manilow. That IS rhyming!

• Cook at office/bar said he'd seen me at bar 3 times in last 24 hours. Bartender said if I worked above a bakery I'd weigh 500 pounds.

• Someday I hope I'm as happy as the girls in the hair commercials. They make having really great hair seem utterly euphoric.

• Many people say they want to be writers when what they mean is they want to be either John Grisham or J.K. Rowling.

• I so enjoy it I don't want sticks of butter, I want butter on a stick.

• I’ll probably see the movie, but as scary as Godzilla looks I'm surprised Hollywood hasn't made a movie about Devilzilla.

• Just learned #KarlRove was born on Dec. 25. I believe it's the only thing he and Jesus have in common.

• Do sober people who are on the wagon fight over who gets to be the wagon's designated driver?

• I find it impossible to eat a whole carrot without at least once saying aloud, "Eh . . . What's up, Doc?”

• In her restless quest to determine who has more omnipotence, daughter, 7, asked who has more elves: God or Santa?

• Men are from Mars, women from Venus, but Venus Williams is from Lynwood, California.

• I’d like to see Bruno Mars and Venus Williams get together and have a kid who could be described as earthy.

• The greatest lie we tell to one another is, “Hate to say I told you so, but ...” Saying, “I told you so,” is one of life’s greatest joys.

• One of these days I'm going to share the story of the unscrupulous masseuse who was arrested for armed rubbery.

• Having a bad day? Try humming in your head the Vince Guaraldi piano riff from the Charlie Brown Christmas special. Works every time.

• I like to ask fitness fanatics if dire situations required the deed, what part of themselves would they eat 1st. Most fun with vegetarians.

• I remain amazed the lobster tanks at my grocery store are locked. What shoplifter is brave enough to shove a live lobster down his pants?

• The older I get the more the term “religious holiday” strikes me as an oxymoron.

• Told 7-year-old if she squeeze a piece of coal hard enough she’ll make a diamond. She squeezed so hard she almost made a turd.

• I wish when I was younger I'd joined the Peace Corps and did hydro-electric work in 3rd world countries so I could say I once gave a dam.

• If Jeremiah was, indeed, a bullfrog, who drove him to the liquor store to get his mighty fine wine? So much of the story remains untold.

• I’m convinced we could end world hunger if for just one summer USA agreed to cease all competitive eating contests. 

• Until every single crawling or winged insect respects a 5-foot privacy zone around my exposed skin, summer will always be overrated.

• I wonder how guys like Bach and Beethoven reacted when during meltdowns someone told them to compose themselves.

• Some sleepless night I'm gonna invent a game I'll call "Insomnia Bingo." On-line players report the clock times they awaken until “Bingo!"

• Sure, he has his faults but the only thing I can conclude about fevered Obama-bashers is they must have been sound asleep from 2000-2008.

• We’re depleting the oceans, burning the forests, using up all the resources. We're not Earthlings. We're parasites with personalities.

• Remember, having a really great relationship with the Lord doesn’t mean you can treat the rest of us like crap

• Some who want to "take our country back" mean to a time when old white men ruled country. Me, I want it back to when #Steelers ruled it.

• Saying an injured ball player is "day-to-day" drives me nuts. We're all day-to-day!

Related . . .

75 best tweets of 2012

May ’13 tweets of the month

Re-run Sunday: Hilary Swank's nipples

Google “Hilary Swank’s nipples” and this is the fourth top story that pops up. That’s impressive, only slightly less impressive than the nipples themselves. I’m re-running it today because I saw for the first time this summer the nipples on the old man down the street. His nipples are repulsive and should never be seen in public.

Oh, well. What are you gonna do? 

I never really gave much thought to the nipples of my neighbors until I saw Hilary Swank’s. 

We’d just watched the compelling Clint Eastwood’s 2004 “Million Dollar Baby” with our 12-year-old. The film won the Academy Award for Best Picture and stars Swank as scruffy boxer who beats the odds to earn an ill-fated Vegas title fight.

Josie liked it and found Swank very appealing. She asked me to Google up some pictures of her to see what she looks like when she’s doesn’t have sweat rolling off her nose.

The page of images contained maybe 20 shots of Swank smiling and looking radiant. 

My guy eyes instinctively ignored each of those and zeroed straight in on the one you see above. I full-screened it so I could bask in Swank’s lovely hooters.

Sure, I minimized it when Josie approached in favor of something you’d see in People Magazine. But the instant she turned away I clicked back on the one more suitable for Peep-Hole Magazine.

I gave those puppies a good long look. Very nice.

Amidst my juvenile leering, I realized I was in a moment of self-discovery.

I’d never really considered the nipple before, overlooking its individualistic charms in favor of the whole breast.

You could say when it came to mammary glands, I was missing the forest for the trees.

What surprised me, too, is the realization that I’m being inundated with nipple sightings and until I saw Swanks’ it never dawned on my how repulsive they can be.

Of course, the nipples I see most often are the ones on old men in my neighborhood.

Now, I’m 50. I am by any standard an old man in my neighborhood. But these guys, man, they’re pushing 80 and they can’t seem to keep their shirts on.  It’s seems like it’s an unwelcome trend: old men who stopped caring what they looked like back when Nixon was still president are letting it all hang out.

And there’s a lot to let hang out.

There’s this one old timer whose nipples I see more often than those of my wife’s.

And he’s a disgusting, hairy slob.

I’ll drive by at lunch and there is, riding his John Deere in just his shorts. When he’s done, he’ll sit on the porch and sip a beer. Later on he’s out there reading the paper or listening to a ballgame. He reminds me of Frank Costanza on the “Seinfeld” episode where Kramer tries to convince the old crank his ample bosum would benefit from the innovative male bra he’s calling the “Bro.”

If Hilary Swank has high beams, this guy has blinkers. They are way over on the side of his chassis. When I spy him straight on jiggling on the tractor, it’s like looking at a hitchhiker who’s heading in both directions.

I feel like screaming at him to put some clothes on, that there are children in the neighborhood.

There should be some dignity about being a man, and being a father, certainly. That means the more clothes, the better.

They only place anyone other than my wife is going to see my handsome nipples is at the swimming pool.

In case you’re interested, mine are about the size of nickels coyly hidden under a thatch of chest hair, another example of not being able to see the forest for the trees.

Of course, who am I to judge?

Maybe one day I’ll age into a state of mind where I consider clothes a nuisance, too.

Maybe guys my age will take it even a step further and we’ll sit around with nothing but our abundant body hairs to conceal our shriveled modesties.

Of course, that would be an example of not seeing the tree for the forest.