A gassy discussion of cheap fuel

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That gas prices at my local mini-mart have since the start of summer remained low and not fluctuated even a penny can only mean one thing …

The Middle East today is a bastion of peace and stability!

Whew, I didn’t see that coming.

I didn’t see gas prices being such a non-issue either.

Can you imagine the turmoil if we Americans, as many predicted, were paying $5 a gallon right now?

For many, the cost would be more than $100 for the weekly fill-up.

It’s not a stretch. Gas-per-gallon in Norway is $6.53; in the U.K., $5.60

It would be a big part of our presidential campaigns. Of course, everyone would be blaming Obama, which is patently unfair, because he gets none of the credit that gas prices have been so low for so long.

Do you realize it’s been more than two years since most of you have paid more than $3 a gallon?

The 10-year high was June 2008 when the country was being run by a Texas oilman who during his 2000 campaign promised his knowledge of the industry would help affect oil prices.

On that, he was right on the money.

They went way up.

They were $1.35 when W. took office (they were $1.10 through most of the ‘90s), and peaking at $4.15 a gallon in June of 2008.

I’ve been paying $2.39, give or take a penny or two, since Memorial Day.

I don’t recall paying less than $2-a-gallon, but I know it was that low in the Buckeye State.

I saw one chart that said gas in U.S. dollars-per-gallon in Iran is $1.49; it’s $.92 in Saudi Arabia.

Still, I’m sure I’d find residing in either of those nations would give me so much else about which to bitch it’d be a bit of a wash so I’m not tempted. My daughters, I’m sure, would hate it even worse.

How about this? 

The website that relates these overseas numbers, statistica.com, said a gallon of gas in Venezuela is just $0.02. Two pennies!

Tic Tacs cost more.

I’m not good at math, but I’m wondering if next time my gauge starts tilting  toward “E” it would be worth it for me to get in my 2007 Saturn Vue and drive the 8,218 round-trip miles to Venezuela just to fill up on cheap gas.

I’m sure there’s a Caracas restaurant or two that serves a chicken tasty enough to bestow some culture on the drive.

I hope I’m alive when something transformational, something revolutionary, finally tanks everything about the way we fill our tanks.

I resent everything about getting gas. Pricing is whimsical and at $2.39 still too expensive. And I despise all the dead time spent standing there pumping gas and being assaulted with crappy music that in these days of cultural desolation constitutes hit songs.

I do it knowing the whole time I’m using the same dirty technology my motorist forefathers began using in the ‘70s.

The 1870s, that is.

We can do better. I want something clean and efficient.

Something green.

Like grass clippings!

Bio-diesel and ethanol are on the rise. That's encouraging

Ideally, I’d like to see someone develop a process that would eliminate one noxious byproduct and turn into neutral energy.

I’m thinking of bovine flatulence.

The U.N. reported in 2014 the average cow produces enough methane gas to do the same greenhouse damage as four tons of carbon dioxide.

Harness and reverse that kind of negative disposition and you’ve taken a real step forward. Or hoof, as it were.

Future refinements could be vehicles that run on human farts.

See the tank getting low, you just pull into a Mexican restaurant and gas up.

Business at Taco Bell would be booming — and I mean booming in every sense of the word.

Sure, gas is relatively cheap now, but that doesn’t mean we can’t do better.

Remember, in 1968, the year The Stones released “Jumpin’ Jack Flash,” gas, gas, gas, was just 33-cents a gallon, gallon, gallon.

The music was better then, too.

Related …

A beef on cow flatulence

Not feeling groovy about gas prices

Jiffy riffs on gas prices, etc.

A flatulent discussion of unfair gas prices

Avoid unnecessary upgrades! Smart phones smart enough

Toothpaste: Our most pleasant poison (from '10)

My wife was furious. The kids wouldn’t take the poison. They cried. They screamed.

“Please! Please, Mommy, don’t make us do it!”

I’d had enough. I dragged them both into the bathroom and roughly put the poison in their mouths.

Then I took them to bed, knelt down and did a soulless auctioneer’s version of the “if I should die before I wake” prayer.

Finally, the house was at peace.

Just another night of trying to get the kids to brush their teeth with the only poison we put right in our mouths.

It’s true. It’s there on every single toothpaste dispenser.

“WARNINGS: Keep out of the reach of children under 6 years of age. If more than used for brushing is accidentally swallowed, get medical help or contact a Poison Control Center.”

Every tube of toothpaste contains enough poison fluoride to kill a deer. 

I thought I’d read or written newspapers stories about every single way a human being choose to end his or her life. There’s self-severed arteries, hanging, automotive involvement -- daily gore galore.

Yet, I’ve never once seen a story of authorities finding a sweet-smelling corpse that OD’d on Crest.

Wouldn’t be a bad way to go, you’d think.

I’ve been sentimental about toothpaste lately because I finally emptied my favorite 8-year-old toothpaste. Some fine whiskeys are considered premium after just seven years.

The toothpaste in my dispenser was 8. It had a heady aroma, a piquant aftertaste and what wine enthusiasts call “a good nose.”

It was a pharmaceutical sort of souvenir I purchased at a chain drug store down along the Riverwalk in San Antonio, a town you can really sink your teeth into.

I was about 12 before I realized the common toothbrush wasn’t made from precious metals. That’s because whenever I left home for the night, my mother would always say, “Don’t forget your toothbrush!”

She never said, “Don’t forget to brush your teeth!”

The emphasis was on having it on my person, as if it were some magic talisman that would ward off vampires and other boogiemen. That could have been true because I never did forget my toothbrush and was never troubled by otherworldly evils.

But one day I came to realize that a cheap toothbrush could be had for about $2 and most hotels gave them away for free if you said you forgot your own.

Same with toothpaste. 

I don’t know why I felt compelled to buy a plastic dispenser of Colgate toothpaste on the Riverwalk, but I’m going to do it again next time I go someplace splendid like San Antonio.

This was my travel toothpaste. I kept it in my suitcase and later at my Mom’s when I started spending more time there.

I’ve known this toothpaste four years longer than I’ve known my second daughter. She’s a good kid, but there’s something to be said about enduring familiarity.

And every time I’d brush my teeth I’d think about the fine time we had there in San Antonio in 2002. It’s a great town and Riverwalk may be the best city amenity of any town in America. And nearby The Alamo is a stirring shrine to heroism and an oddly inspiring name for a popular rental car company.

Why any business would want to associate itself with historic slaughter is a mystery. But Alamo seems to be doing well. Who knows? Maybe one day some entrepreneur is going to make a fortune franchising Pearl Harbor Dry Cleaners.

The Colgate really became special to me in October 2005. That’s when the toothpaste reached what it said was its expiration date.

I never pay the least bit of attention to expiration dates.

They are a corporate ploy to get us all to toss perfectly fine products and run out and buy more. Things like toothpaste aren’t like milk. They don’t go bad. If anything, the lethal capabilities of the poison are likely to diminish.

So for the past five years or so every time I used a pea-sized drop of toothpaste I’d feel like I was giving the finger to the greedy shills at Colgate-Palmolive HQ in New York.

It’s been empty, as empty as toothpaste can be, for a month now and it still perfumes the air with minty freshness with just a little squeeze.

So all hail toothpaste!

In a world riddled with so much toxic violence, it’s nice to know there’s at least one poison so pleasant that every day it does something dazzling to brighten all our smiles.

Saying goodbye to Arnold Palmer

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Dead 10 days, I guess it’s now a safe bet Arnold Palmer won’t be coming back.

That’s a pity, not to mention a solid argument against cremation.

Historians said George Washington had a morbid fear of being buried alive. 

I call it rational.

I can’t tell whether I believe Palmer’s really dead or that a man that magnificent ever really lived.

Attending his memorial only made it worse. So much of the day seemed so surreal, like a dream. 

Me, Val and a buddy of mine got there 90 minutes before the start of the 11 a.m. ceremony. In some regards, we arrived late. We barely got a seat clear in the back.

The pews were packed with golf royalty.

We sat right next to Bob Goalby. He won the Masters in 1968 after Roberto DeVicenzo famously made a scoring error and was disqualified after innocently attesting to the mistake by signing the scorecard. The incident is still recalled any time the haughty precision of the rules of golf are debated.

Goalby, 87, didn’t say anything about that.

He did say he today hits tee shots like he urinates: “It goes out just a little bit then it just trickles away.”

Seated in front of us rocking a neon blonde punk buzzcut was a friendly Connellsville woman who said she was Palmer’s twice-a-week masseuse. What did Palmer say to her?

“He asked if I thought he’d look good with a haircut like mine.”

Professional ethics, she said, prevented her from dishing any further intimacies.

Who knew masseuses had ethics? 

They should all run for Congress.

I shook hands or made small talk with Ernie Els, Tom Watson, Annika Sorenstam, Lee Trevino, Phil Mickelson, Nick Faldo, Tom Ridge and Ricky Fowler to name just a few. Darius Rucker was there, too, as was the Ryder Cup.

We had a great chat with Dow Finsterwald, also 87, winner of the 1958 PGA Championship and a proud native of Athens, Ohio. He talked with boastful pride of his Ohio University connections, something I find obnoxious in others but, hey, they’re not Bobcats.

Poor bastards.

The speakers were almost all funny or moving  — Jim Nantz especially — in sharing their Palmer stories, except for Tim Finchem, who like any sports commissioner is apt to do, came off sounding like a grinding accountant.

Palmer grandson Sam Saunders told a great story about how his grandfather never let anything come between him and his loved ones. He said he called and asked Palmer what he was doing.

Palmer said he was talking with the president.

“The president of what?”

“Of the United States.”

Saunders asked why he took his call when he was standing in the Oval Office.

“I wanted to talk to you,” Palmer said.

It could have been Bush or it could have been Obama. Saunders didn’t say and the whole day was a welcome respite from political divisiveness. Palmer insiders told me they were adamant in rebuffing the shrill desires of one presidential candidate who was eager to be seen attending.

Because I strive to keep this blog free of political divisiveness, I won’t reveal his name.

Vince Gill was pitch perfect in his every utterance, but I’ve never seen him when he ever wasn’t.

After Jack Nicklaus told a story about how a then-stoic Palmer had admitted to tuning out his hearing aids the day he was honored in D.C. with the Congressional Medal of Freedom at which Gill performed, Gill deadpanned, “He said I was his favorite singer. Now I know he never heard me sing a note.”

Gill, who has been coming to visit Palmer for years and is the runaway celebrity crush of the sweethearts who work in Palmer’s office, said Palmer was his favorite person.

“Not my favorite golfer,” he said. “My favorite person.”

It was a damn fine dream.

It's a shame it ever had to end.

Related …

RIP Arnold Palmer: A lucky local says goodbye

Arnold Palmer gave me noogies on Monday

Happy 80th Birthday, Arnold Palmer!

Interviewing Arnold Palmer

Playing Oakmont & Arnold Palmer says I’m the best

Kate Upton in Latrobe to visit Arnold Palmer

Yesterday, Arnold Palmer watched me golf

So what’s Arnold Palmer really like?

Latrobe abuzz: Who’ll appear in Palmer special?

Golf Channel doing Palmer interviews at The Pond

Arnold Palmer NOT attending my book signing

Jonesin’ for Xarelto: The new Palmer ad

Aiming for good seats at Palmer memorial

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My standard admonition that every well-lived life concludes with loved ones bitching about parking difficulties at your funeral is about to undergo a winged revision.

As we’re about to witness, a life truly well-lived involves pilots complaining about difficult-to-obtain landing permission as they circle the skies above the airport named in your honor.

That’s what we’re experiencing in Latrobe today as we seek to memorialize Arnold Palmer.

I’ve heard Arnold Palmer Regional Airport fielded requests from more than 100 private planes seeking landing privileges. Among the reported passengers attending are Jack Nicklaus, Vince Gill, Tiger Woods and nearly every member of both the U.S. and European Ryder Cup teams.

News reports say organizers are preparing for as many as 10,000 people to make the drive down Route 30 to St. Vincent College.

I think they’re low-balling. It could be twice that.

Pittsburghers drive to St. Vincent out of habit. Each summer they become like migratory birds, albeit ones with beer bellies and Steeler fan tattoos. St. Vincent is where the Steelers practice and Pittsburghers love a winner.

And Palmer was a winner in every way.

I was raised to think this way by my father who idolized the man. Lots of our fathers did and many still do. 

So I have a hunch a bunch  of people are going to woke up today, saw the sunshine and read the news about the memorial and reflexively began driving to Latrobe.

Gates opened at 8 a.m. and guaranteed there will be tailgates.

The memorial will be in the Basillica, but they’ll be closed-circuit hookups in gyms and auditoriums. 

I was surprised when an invitation came for me. It seems legit but I prophesy an awkward encounter with security where they doubt my credentials.

How eager am I to ensure I get a good seat?

Besides the invite, I’m taking the “Use All The Crayons!” deluxe-sized poster board because it in large print includes Palmer’s prominent endorsement of my book.

If I don’t get in I think I’ll just go to the stands at Chuck Noll Field. I think that’s where Palmer would go if Palmer were alive to memorialize himself. They’re putting up big screens and it’s there where attendees will have the best view of Palmer’s plane as it makes one last ceremonial flight over the college.

It’s a somber ceremony, but in Latrobe it’s starting to feel like a party, a celebration.

I thought of this Friday when I popped in for a drink at Flappers, the second floor bar right here at the Tin Lizzy.

I’d spent a great night with my friends and didn’t feel like heading home just yet, so I pulled into the Tin parking lot — and talk about your reflexive vehicular maneuvers.

The bar was empty, but on the porch there were about a dozen people having what sounded like a riot every 90 seconds.

I asked the bartender what was going on.

“Oh, they’re telling Arnold Palmer stories,” she said. “They’ve been out there for two hours. I don’t think they’re ever going to leave.”

I stayed for about 30 minutes and it was like you could have set your watch; a roar of laughter every 90 seconds. I thought someone was going to call the cops.

I’m sure they’ll all be there today. 

The Palmer family is adamant about wanting the public to attend. Everyone wants a good seat.

But a friend of mine reminded me he’s going to have one of the best seats of all.

“I’m staying home and watching it with my Dad.”

I’m envious.

Results of my first reader survey

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The results of my first reader survey are in and they’re spectacular. 

This blog is loved by everyone, everywhere!

I say this with the humble understanding that the survey margin of error is plus/minus 100 percent.

So I was pleased when a friend texted me that many of his co-workers tried to goad him into reading my post about the death of Arnold Palmer. This is significant because my friend for two months every year steadfastly refuses to read any of my posts.

He works at a large Latrobe manufacturer that supplies speciality plastics to industries around the world. He’s the lunatic who quits reading the blog cold turkey for two months so he can binge read while he’s marooned in a frozen Illinois tree stand (links below)

“I was told you wrote a great one about Arnie,” he said. “I can’t wait to read that one.”

It’s so bizarre I have trouble wrapping my head around it.

I think one of these years I’m going go in and delete every post the day his hiatus is scheduled to end just to, you know, mess with Sasquatch.

It’d be a supreme irony if by me metaphorically messing with Sasquatch he’d actually pay attention to nature and wind up shooting an actual Sasquatch.

But because I exist in an appalling feedback vacuum, I peppered him with questions: Who told you? How many people there read the blog? 

“Everybody reads it. It’s our water cooler conversation. I suggest that everyone read it and your content keeps them coming back. The ones that get the most reaction are comedy, local stories and sports. But you have many fans. People really love the blog.”

Let’s parse it.

• “Everyone reads it.” I take that literally. So that means Dolly Parton and Dalai Lama now have something else in common besides first names that are pronounced exactly alike. 

There are 7.5 billion people on the planet. If I could somehow convince every one of those 7.5 billion people to just each give me one penny, man, I’d spend the rest of my life wrapping pennies.

• “It’s our water cooler conversation.” I believe it’s always been. It’s just that people are now talking about the content instead of saying, “Say, did you hear what Rodell’s doing now? He started a blog. What a shithead!”

• “I suggest everyone read it and your content keeps them coming back.” In this world chock full of meaningless distractions, I’m proud to be one of ‘em. All snark aside, that’s great.Thanks, Dave.

• “The ones that get the most reaction are comedy, local stories and sports.” That’s my sense, too. My instinct is to always try to be funny, but if it’s something topical I feel obliged to opine — even if it’s political and I might risk upsetting half my readers. Life’s not always funny.

One disturbing fact: two of my top ’16 stories eulogize prominent locals. It puts me in the awkward position of rooting for the demise of beloved natives. Or maybe I could become a sort of Dexter Morgan who blogs. “Dexter” was the popular Showtime series about a serial killer who killed serial killers. Doing what he did for blog purposes might lead to a surge in readers, sure, but it seems like way more work than just reading the morning news for blog-worthy stories so I don’t see it happening.

• “You have many fans. People really love the blog.” Even one as habitually self-deprecating as I can no longer deny this. This blog has in the last three months drawn 29,611 readers. For an enigmatically named blog with zero niche appeal that seems substantial to me.

And who knows how many nut jobs are avoiding reading for months at a time so they can binge read in their tree stands?

I’d do a more scientific survey, but I fear the results would show 100 percent of my readers are hostile to filling out surveys.

So all I can ask is that you keep reading and referring to friends whenever you find  it worthy.

Me, I’ll keep trying to keep it fresh and lively while simultaneously trying to figure out a way to bust out of these margins of error that seem to have defined my entire career.

Related …

Chris is a modest guy: Strongly disagree

Binge reading my blog in the tree stand

Random post with nod to binge-reading Dave

RIP Arnold Palmer: A lucky local says goodbye

11,513 readers in July: Is it time to charge?

Reading my sh!t on the crapper