A son's Mother's Day lament (from '13)

(717 words)

The woman sounded alarmed. She called to tell me she thinks Mom, 80, is really slipping.

“She asked me to take her to the dentist the other day,” she said. “I told her to meet me in the lobby. When I got there she smiled and said, ‘Do I know you?’ She wasn’t joking.”

That Mom’s asking people I don’t know to ferry her to the dentist alarms me.

The woman’s one of Mom’s neighbors in the condo where she’s lived the past 12 years. My second cousin’s been living there with her the past two years, but the busy girl has a boyfriend and Mom doesn’t see her much.

I sensed the kind woman wants me to move Mom out of there into someplace where she could get more care.

Mom dreads the thought. She’s comfortable where she is.

Me, I’m like a third string quarterback with a fourth quarter lead. I’m just trying to run out the clock and not make any stupid mistakes to infuriate the fans.

I didn’t tell the woman that financial considerations are in play. We are in no position to add any level of elevated care for her.

I didn’t tell her caring for her has led to a profound estrangement from my absent older brother, someone I used to lean on for advice and support. We haven’t spoken for two years and any thaw seems unlikely. It’s something I should have seen coming, I guess. 

Fifty years is a long time for a conservative to love anything.

I didn’t tell her I know I should feel more ashamed that I think it would solve a lot of problems if Mom just dropped dead of a massive heart attack. 

I didn’t tell her any of those things. Instead, I just thanked her for her call and concern.

“Sure,” she said. “I really love Rachel. I just thought I should tell you about your mother.”

Tell me about my mother?

Let me tell you about my mother.

I always think of her whenever I see Carol Burnett.

It’s too bad they never met. They would have been great friends. They had the same preposterous sense of humor. It enriches the lives of all who know her.

I’ll never forget the day Mom did a sit-up.

One.

I was probably about 15 or 16. It was the summer that she for some reason decided to take up the fitness kick.

She lay down on the floor and asked me to secure her feet. She put her arms behind her head and raised up to her knees.

Then on the reverse as she was trying to strengthen some muscles in her body, other key ones loosened. Her body became a bellows.

There, about a foot from my face, she blasted out the kind of fart that would have earned cheers in a fraternity house.

I don’t know how your mother would react, but here’s how mine did: she howled with laughter. It may not have resulted in the desired weight loss, but right there she laughed her ass off.

I did, too.

It was one of the funniest things I’ve ever seen.

She grew up in Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania. Yes, she and Groundhog Phil spring from the same ground. But unlike Phil, she’s never seen a shadow.

She’s one of the most sunny people I’ve ever known. 

A friend of mine told me it was his experience that a person with dementia becomes the opposite of what they were prior to onset. He said his once-darling mother became a mean old bitch before she died.

I don’t see that happening, and it will surely kill me if it does. If anything, she’s become even more childishly cheerful as her mental capacity is decreasing. Next to her, the late Fred Rogers was a cranky sourpuss.

Today’s not the day to write a eulogy for a woman who, if she lives as long as her 97-year-old father did, will endure until, gulp, 2030.

So today I will simply wish you and your loved ones a Happy Mother’s Day and share with you a lesson I learned at the feet of my dear, sweet mother:

Remember to try and always laugh your ass off even during the times when the situation really stinks.

Related . . .

The reason men dislike excessive tattoos

Doc says Mom not crazy (2010)

Mom’s making crazy contagious by a nose (2011)

Horse racing needs jumbo jockeys (from '10)

For the good of the sport, The Triple Crown needs one race where the jockeys are jumbos.

I’m proposing horse racing alter its rules so that the Derby is run, not by elfin athletes, but by king-sized couch potatoes who weigh no fewer than 350 pounds each.

See, The Triple Crown races are among my favorite sporting events. Combined they conclude in under 7 minutes.

The Super Bowl has interminable commercial breaks that endure that long.

I want one race to take as long as the Super Bowl. I want to be able to invest a full afternoon in watching the ponies sluggishly trot ‘round the track with the occasional need to stop to graze or access a convenient water trough for quenching swigs.

A 350-pound jockey would ensure this. Note that the weight wouldn’t include the cooler full of beer each jockey would be allowed to strap to the saddle.

The weigh-ins would be priceless viewing. Instead of traditional colors, each jumbo jockey could wear a shirt promoting his -- or her -- favorite saloon or bowling alley. 

There’s not a tavern in the land that couldn’t field three or four bar regulars worthy of consideration. I’m drinking buddies with tons of guys who’d qualify. Or to be more accurate, I’m buddies with about five guys who if thrown together in one big sack would weight one ton.

And 350 is a good weight. It’s ample enough to meet today’s obesity standards, but not so much so that many jockeys could make it without dietary supplements. Thus, pre-game rituals might show plus-sized jockeys scarfing down buckets of The Colonel’s chicken in order to make designated weight.

The spectacle would flip on its head the unhealthy anorexic trends that ravage traditional diminutive jockeys obliged to starve themselves to meet the required 126 pounds.

In fact, much of the pre-race hype could be devoted to another rising American pastime -- competitive eating.

“And Frank, representing The Outdoor Inn in Queens is going double fisted with a Whopper with triple bacon and the dangerous extra cheese pizza that was blamed for the unfortunate cardiac arrest of Tubby Tom at last year’s weigh-in! But Pam from The Smilin’ Hog Bar-B-Q & Foam in Biloxi is coming on strong with a stack of baby backs dripping with the home team sauce, now available on-line and in Piggly-Wiggly’s all across Dixie.”

Of course, nothing would match the excitement of the moment when the loads are loaded into the starting gates.

“And they’re off!”

Or not. I speculate that with a 350-pound jockey on its back, many of these thoroughbreds wouldn’t even budge. And wouldn’t that be exciting!

“Not one horse is moving! Not a one is able to manage the first step! But wait! The no. 4 horse is staggering out of the gate! She’s taken four steps . . . five . . . Oh! No! The filly’s collapsed!”

Given those dynamics, it’s likely the 1 and 1/2 mile Derby would take about three hours, rather than the usual two minutes.

The final “sprint” down the homestretch would allow gamblers plenty of convenient time for bathroom and smoke breaks before the action got down to the wire.

Some animal rights activists might protest that the entire spectacle might be cruel to these huge beasts.

They might say they are not fit enough for the race and the exertion could kill the dumb animals.

And they have a point.

But there’s an easy fix for that.

Just have ‘em all read and sign waivers before the race.

History Channel wants this blog for Ozzy pee story

(677 words)

The e-mail crackled with legalese. An adjunct for the History Channel was asking if the august network could reference this very blog for a feature they were producing.

I’d need to sign a release or production would be in jeopardy.

Would I consent?

This is the point where other writers would say, “Whoa.” They’d break off timely discussions to summon attorneys, strategists and marketing gurus to finagle a percentage of the profits

Not me. I do my own negotiations.

I had just one question:

“Yes?”

If I agree, will you send me a free t-shirt?

“Merch options are still being resolved, but that shouldn’t be a problem.”

So you’re saying maybe?

“Correct. It’s a maybe.”

Then you got yourself a deal!

Sweet!

And that huckster Donald Trump likes to brag about the deals he’s made.

The History Channel is working with T Group/Osbourne Productions in Hollywood. Together they are producing a show called “World Detour” starring Ozzy and Jack Osbourne visiting various historic and culturally significant sites.

Why on earth would they need my permission?

It turns out I’m among the leading authorities on the old rocker’s urine. Or at least where he’s splashed it.

Specifically, I’ve re-written the mistaken history of the day Ozzy peed on the Alamo.

In fact, it never happened.

I learned this in about 2004 when I was at The Alamo and asked in hushed, reverential tones, “So, just where around here did Ozzy piss?”

I was told it was a myth. You can check out the original story here. I was told they'd have the stars discussing what I wrote.

Implied is the exposure will lead to a surge of readers who’ll flock to my blog, which will lead to book deals, which will lead to movie deals, which will lead to personal scandal when comely actress Rachel McAdams says she has a kinky thing for writers expert in where Ozzy Osbourne publicly relieves his bladder.

Heck, I’ll be happy if I ever get the shirt.

Understand, this won’t be my first sashay down the aisle with a popular boutique cable network.

Remember, it was in 2014 when poobahs from Arnold Palmer Enterprises told me they wanted me to host a Golf Channel tavern round-table on what it’s like having the golf legend in the neighborhood.

They hinted I’d there was a possibility my homespun delivery would lead to breakout stardom, maybe even a Golf Channel segment of my very own.

None of that ever happened.

But I did get a free hat!

Worse was in ’12 when Palmer’s Orlando big shots gave me a handshake deal over a job that would pay in the neighborhood of $70,000 a year (link below).

It looked like a sure thing. How could it be anything but?

Arnold Palmer was one of my references!

They said they’d call in two weeks.

It’s been four years. I’m still waiting.

What, besides spousal suspicions I’d made the whole thing up, did I get out of that?

Free lunch at a table next to Arnold Palmer!

I could go on and on.

An NYC buddy of mine — been going to Steeler games with him and our gang since ’94 — told me he loves my “crayons!” book so much he’s going to tell his wife she needs to obtain the rights.

His wife is a big shot at Simon & Schuster.

You may have heard of them.

Now, he’s been saying some variation of this for three years, but he’d become adamant.

Then he texted me the following: “Good things come to those who wait. You’ll hear good news in three days.”

That was February.

What did I get out of that?

Nothing but fits of resentment, despair, bouts of sleeplessness and a desperation so soul-gnawing it leads to dark thoughts of drastic vengeance.

Yes, I’m thinking of unfriending him.

Maybe I have it all wrong. Maybe the real reason History Channel wants me has nothing to do with The Alamo.

Maybe they want to record Ozzy discussing why he’s never bothered to piss all over some downtrodden Latrobe writer.

Feels historic to me.

Related …

Me on TV & the day Arnold Palmer’s people offered me a $70,000-a-year job

Dashed hope fund

Dashing my radio dreams

My novel frustrations

I fail the 4th graders: I didn't chew the poo

(797 words)

Regular readers have heard me audaciously boast about my many successes as a public speaker. They’ve read me brag about audience hosannas, huge paydays and the time that drunk said I cured his hangover.

So it’s only fair to report last week I bombed. Laid an egg.

For the first time ever, attendees came up to me afterwards and said I’d disappointed them.

Why the failure?

I decided against gobbling down the fake worm poo.

It was a rare case of ignoring something that didn’t smell causing a real stink.

Yes, last week was the 8th annual year for me to bring my worm composting bin to Baggeley Elementary School. Lucy’s in the 4th grade and, like years before, they asked if I wouldn’t mind telling my Earth-friendly composting stories to the entire grade, about 60 children.

No problem. I had this in the bag, I said. Or bin, as it were.

The worms are the stars of the show — and it takes a heck of a straight man to admit he’s second fiddle — actually, given their multitude, about thousandth fiddle — to the noble Eisenia Fetida.

And just try saying that Latin mouthful next time you’re wandering the aisles at the local bait shop.

But your typical 4th grader loves worms, especially the boys.

In fact, I stopped letting the kids handle the worms years ago after I suspected one of the lads had eaten one.

I thought about investigating the suspects, but realized the only way I could succeed was to find a child with baited breath.

See, that's part of the problem. I’ve by now got a million worm jokes.

It’s made me cocky, and worm cockiness is a debilitating hubris and I think a potential side effect of certain over-the-counter ED remedies.

So I thought this year I’d coast on my riffs and skip the worm poo consumption bit.

The gag — and it is a huge hit — involves me pretending a handful of dark chocolate chips in a baggy is actually nutrient-rich worm poo.

I hold the bag aloft and expound about its supple benefits, its agricultural advantages and how truly it helps save the planet.

“Not only that,” I say, reaching into the bag, “but the stuff tastes great.”

The first time I did that it got the greatest reaction to anything I’d ever done.

The girls shrieked, the boys cheered and out of the corner of my eye I saw one sensitive teacher double over like she was going to heave.

It was sensational.

And that’s what they all wanted.

Instead, what they got was me eating lunch.

I didn’t want to reprise the same joke. Like any real artist, I couldn’t resist the urge to stretch.

So instead I brought out a little picnic basket and proceeded to remove items and quiz the kids as to what was acceptable for worms to eat. The discards included banana peels, apple cores, tea bags, shredded newspaper, etc.

All that went into the worm bin.

Then I took out a cut of leftover pizza and asked, “Would this be good for the worms?”

“No!” the kids screamed.

So who gets it?

“Mr. Rodell gets it!”

The call-and-response took a few rehearsals, but I soon had them yelling “Mr. Rodell gets it!” as I wolfed down a pretzel, a slice of cheese, some pepperoni, a Vienna sausage and a Hershey bar. It was so much fun I was chagrined I didn’t bring a can of beer and a lit cigar.

Then, as usual, I opened it up to questions, which meant the kids spent the next 20 minutes asking if worms could eat shoes, buttons, bikes, baby sisters, etc.

My favorite question was from a tow-headed kid who asked in all seriousness if a worm had ever eaten a fish.

I told him, honestly, I didn’t know, but I could see the future and knew beyond doubt that one day he’d make a really fine blogger.

But my self-conviction it had been a smashing success was immediately shattered when two of Lucy’s classmates came up and asked why I hadn’t eaten the worm poo.

I told them, in effect, been there/done that.

“But that,” one said, “was the best part!”

Worse, Lucy said she heard the same thing from other classmates and if there’s one thing I cannot abide it’s the thought of classmates taunting my darling that her Daddy does NOT eat worm poo.

I surrender.

So if they have me back next year, I promise to happily, proudly and with gusto chow down on fake worm poo.

The 4th graders made me realize me not eating worm poo is like Springsteen not playing “Born to Run.”

And you gotta give the people what they want.

Related …

I cure hangovers

Chewin’ on Earth Day and warm worm poo

Frank Burns eats worms

My one-man neighborhood trash crusade

The Great Pacific Garbage Patch

I pranked the trash man yesterday

A day for mourning: RIP Dow Carnahan

(653 words)

Days like today make it impossible to maintain our pledge to always stand for silly over somber.

What choice do we have?

Our friend Dow Carnahan, 56, has died.

An announcer for 30 years with WCNS, the hometown AM radio station, all the obituaries are calling him “The Voice of Latrobe,” which he was. He broadcast the Latrobe Wildcats high school football and basketball games and did the same duties for St. Vincent College. He also announced racetrack competition at the area speedways.

He did the news, too, and in 2013 and 2014 won the peer-awarded “Outstanding Local Radio Newscast” by the Pennsylvania Association of Broadcasters.

What I most respected about him was how little this kind, gentle man felt the need to speak.

Dow was a great talker.

He was an even better listener.

The distinction is key because we live in an age when people are celebrated for relentless volubility. It’s true in our politics, our celebrity and even in our small town bar rooms.

Loud, opinionated people — even the obviously ill-informed — dominate the room.

Dow, a big lanky dude, could have been that guy. He could have been a huge blowhard. Nobody would have minded at all. But that was never his way.

That was a big part of his appeal.

Back when The Pond was still The Pond and Dave Carfang was behind the bar and it was three-deep with happy guzzlers on Friday nights, Dow would often quietly saunter in after broadcasting a game down at Memorial Stadium.

You felt privileged if he came up and stood beside you for a drink. He’d share insider stuff on all the Pittsburgh teams and the big shot broadcasters who’d befriended him.

Everyone who knew Dow liked Dow.

You can say that about a lot of people, but mostly for logistical reasons. Most people don’t know many other people.

Dow knew everyone in Latrobe and everyone in Latrobe liked Dow.

Again, this is a rare feat in a small town where youth sports are so dominant. This is the kind of town where sports editors for the local paper have been punched in the nose for not being sufficiently boosterish.

Dow covered controversies, but he was never controversial. Not once.

A friend of mine messaged me Saturday morning that Dow died in a movie theater Friday evening. Me and the rest of the local irreverents have been eager ever since to know which movie killed him off.

He was alone (his long-time girlfriend had died in August) and when the movie ended, staffers thought he’d fallen asleep and tried to rouse him.

They failed.

To me, it’s a Hall of Fame death and an aspirational way to go.

I’m proud to say I’d been a guest on his popular Saturday morning talk show. You can check out the 30-minute interview at the WCNS Dow Carnahan link on my crayons page.

He said he’d taken “Use All The Crayons!” on a Mexican vacation so magnificently relaxing he spilled a pink drink on the pages. He showed it to me.

The tipsy desecration made me happy.

He said he loved the book and was going to apply the tips, one of which makes me feel slightly uneasy in the wake of his situational death:

“153:   See a movie solo. It feels very liberating.”

It’s odd how some population decreases have a way of making some small towns feel bigger, less personal.

With Dow’s death, our communal identity is diminished. We’re no longer who we were.

His quiet passing, so much like his life, seems imbued with unspoken grace and dignity.

Just like Dow.

I’m already missing him so much.

So today, please, share a moment of silence for the passing of a beloved man gone too soon. 

We’ll all miss that rare gentleman who could be as eloquent in all he said as as in all he left unsaid.