I'm now hosting Tin Lizzy holiday book luncheons

(740 words)

One of my favorite things about working at the Tin Lizzy is pretending I own the Tin Lizzy.

This usually happens when Buck, the actual owner since 1980, is conducting bar business with some unsuspecting vendor, inspector or job applicant in one of the many unoccupied second or third floor rooms within earshot of my office.

I storm into the conversation and begin profanely berating Buck in front of the startled visitor.

“Are you pretending you’re the owner again? I told you if you keep this up I was going to fire your ass. Get back there and finish scrubbing those toilets. Now!”

I then turn to the now bewildered stranger and say, “I’m sorry about this. I’m Buck. I own the place. What can I do for you?”

Now, they don’t know what to think. They look at Buck and they look at me.

My deft lies are perfectly plausible. Unlike Buck, I’m the one who has an actual office in the building. And since I’ve been doing so many book signings and speaking engagements I often dress up. They look at me and see a man in a snazzy sports coat, nice shoes, sometimes a neck tie. I resemble a prosperous businessman, the kind of gent you’d expect to run an historic tavern/restaurant.

Then they look at Buck, an outdoorsman who enjoys spending days in the woods. They see a man who looks like he could spring off his bar stool at any minute and  either gut a deer or make a toilet sparkle.

I don’t know what I enjoy more, the bewildered look on the stranger’s face or the blank one on Buck’s that leads me to believe he’s either playing along or secretly plotting to murder me and make it look like an accident.

So I have a lot of fun here. And now you’re invited to join me.

Management — the real deal — has said I’m welcome to host holiday luncheon or dinner parties in the second floor banquet room. No charge.

The last month convinced me there’s enough of a demand to reach out to groups who’d like to come see the Tin Lizzy, dine off the regular menu, and be entertained by my Arnold Palmer stories and the swashbuckling tales of my years as a seat-of-the-pants freelance writer.

I tell the story about the day National Enquirer asked me to wear a kilt around Latrobe, too, so that seat-of-the-pants bit is purely metaphorical.

Presumptuous of me? Perhaps.

But I just wrapped up my busiest month ever — 12 libraries, two banquet halls, a senior center and the hometown high school — and was ecstatic by the reaction. At every venue people have come up and said how much they enjoyed my talk and how they’d wished friends of theirs could have made it. Many have asked if they could come to the Tin Lizzy.

Yesterday I spoke to seniors ranging in age from 18 to 95. In the morning it was high school writers and in the afternoon it was senior residents at Redstone Highlands.

How’d it go? Kids were stopping my daughter in the high school hallways to say my stories cracked them up.

The more experienced seniors? The organizer said she wants me back in two weeks.

I think I’m hitting my stride. 

So consider this your invitation. Any group of 5 to 18 can make arrangements through me — 724 961-2558; storyteller@chrisrodell.com — and we will set a date. Food and drink can be ordered off the menu at menu prices. My signed books will be available at cover prices. No speaker fees, no mark-ups, no gouging.

You can get a good meal, enjoy some conversation, support a local business (and its parasitic local author) and get a jolt of holiday cheer. And you can see a landmark local building with historic roots.

You might even see Buck!

What do I get out of it? I’ll make some new friends, sell some books and enjoy a cheerful little siesta. Mostly, I get a now-familiar euphoric feeling that comes from making people laugh. They cheer, they clap, they buy my books and they tell me I’m great.

It’s wonderful.

And when that happens, I look around the room and feel something deeply satisfying. I’ve done something special.

I feel like you own the place.

And, believe me, I know the feeling

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Thumb's down "First Man" movie review (w/ some spoilers)

(489 words)

The pressure was too enormous to be contained. The once-ignited gaseous elements demanded release. Lift-off would be achieved.

3 … 2 … 1 …

I’d just endured 138 minutes of “First Man.” I enjoyed the movie, and would have enjoyed it more had I not made the ill-considered decision to consume a heaping plate of refried beans at Don Patron’s just prior to show time. 

Blast off!

It wasn’t the faux pas you might imagine. In space no one can hear you fart. 

Same goes for the distant rear stall in the men’s room at Latrobe 30 Theater & Cafe.

I’m not saying the movie was a stinker. 

Not at all. It’s just that Neil Armstrong, who died in 2012 at age 82, was our most boring American hero. The Wapakoneta, Ohio, native didn’t drink, didn’t brawl. His idea of cutting loose was snacking on a Twinkie.

He was a true straight arrow.

I prefer my arrows a bit bent. Give me Benjamin Franklin, peerless pilot Chuck Yeager, fighter ace and baseball legend Ted Williams. These men had swagger. They were swashbucklers.

Armstrong was a buckle that had never been swashed.

Even his signature line — “One small step for man; one giant leap for mankind” — seems like it hales from the horse-and-buggy era. Had it happened today I’m certain a lucrative endorsement deal would have been pre-arranged and the celestial salute would be something like, “Boy, this would be the perfect time for an ice cold Coke!”

A Blawnox friend — hello Greg! — said I was being shortsighted, always a possibility when the climatic scene takes place 238,912 miles from the planet earth.

He said NASA engineers had to re-fit the seats of the astronauts to accommodate the enormous testicles of men like Armstrong, Buzz Aldrin and Michael Collins. I get that.

But the earthbound half of the film hints that part of Armstrong’s motivation for being an astronaut was to escape the tedium of routine family life. I know lots of beleaguered spouses who say they need a little space, but c’mon! 

The film is visually fantastic, but even parts of that struck me as redundant.

Take the dramatic lift-off sequences. They showed sparks, fire, choking smoke and fervent prayers the vehicular occupants would survive.

Sounds to me like my near weekly efforts to accelerate my 2007 Saturn Vue up the Pennsylvania turnpike on-ramp at at the Irwin interchange. And I’m not making that Saturn part up just so it fits with today’s space theme. I really do drive a Saturn.

So, yes, it’s a good movie. 

But I’ll wager the better, more entertaining film will be “Bohemian Rhapsody,” out November 2.

It’s about a truly dynamic earthling who overcame great odds to achieve what even us gravity slaves refer to as stardom.

But what else would you expect from a movie based on a guy named Mercury?  

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Earth’s plans to occupy Kepler-22b

The Future of Sex in space

Sally Ride in OUT-er space

Leading leaders in search of food, my swagger

(573 words)

It was the most poorly planned quasi-military exercise since Bay of Pigs. We were on a mission to find the food at the Greensburg-area banquet hall destined to be forever known as The Place that Used to be Known as the Bishop Connare Center. 

To give you some idea how preposterous it was, I was the leader.

Some context: I was brought in to speak to about 50 esteemed members and spouses of the Military Officers Association of America.

So the room was full of nothing but decorated combat veterans. Bona fide leaders.

And me.

And through some abeyance to absurd protocol, the retired Lt. Colonel said, “It’s time to eat. Chris, as our guest speaker, will you lead us?”

I had the good sense not to make a lame joke — that’s what this blog is for! — and marched from the main table to the buffet line where five steam tray pans hinted at the feast to come. I grabbed a plate and — voila! — removed the lid off the first steam tray pan.

Nothing, 

Same with the second, and the third.

I’d been punked.

The hostess explained we’d be eating the salad course before the hot food. I signaled retreat. My first attempt at leading real men ended in lettuce and ranch dressing. That I’d been asked to find food and produced only hot air did not bode well for my talk.

Plus, I was nervous my swagger might be AWOL. A certain swagger is essential when you’re an unheralded nobody asking strangers to sit and listen to you talk about something they may or may not need to hear.

What if my swagger was gone for good?

You may recall, my epic September 25 failure — I completely froze — was still fresh in my mind, but not as much as you might think.

I’d chosen to view the whole episode as pure aberration. See, I’m a believer in the necessity of failure in growth. I realize my perceived mistakes, catalogued them and then wholly forgave myself. 

Would I have rather it’d never happened, especially then?

Certainly, but I believe I’ve grown from it. In the aftermath, I had talks in the Greensburg and Jeannette libraries, albeit before smaller audiences, and they both went great. In fact, my friends in Jeannette are planning on bringing a van load of patrons to the Tin Lizzy to hear my stories from my years of swashbuckling reporting.

I’m beginning to realize what gold I have in them.

It was apparent last night. These proud officers and their spouses all reacted the way I dream everyone in every audience always will. They roared with laughter at the jokes and teared up when I talked about the hard times in every life (they’d requested I focus my talk on my “Crayons!” book). And when it was over they lined up to buy books and shower me with praise.

It was very heady. It always is.

The embarrassing failure from last month is buried.

The lieutenant colonel, the leader of these fine leaders, came up afterwards and put his arm around me. “You were great,” he said. “I’ve already had about five men come up and say we need to find more guys like you.”

I smiled, looked him straight in the eye and said, “Sir, there is no one else like me.”

I couldn’t find the food, but I'd found something more nourishing.

I'd found my swagger.

• Note: I’ll be at Second Chapter Books for Fort Ligonier Days for all three days. Stop by!

My doctor wants to be my friend

(641 words)

I was a bit startled when during a routine exam the doctor said he considers me a friend and began confiding details of a failed marriage.

I confess I was relieved he at the time didn’t have anything jammed up my ass.

And I didn’t have anything jammed up his!

I like it when anyone says they consider me a friend. I always make a mental note to keep my new friend in mind next time I need to bum some dough.

But in this intimate professional setting, it was a bit disconcerting. 

Understand, he’s a great guy. I chose him to be my doctor after observing his gentle manner and ready laugh when he cared for my late mother. And, believe me, anyone who didn’t laugh when he or she was in the examining room with my mother and her dementia is someone I wouldn’t want for my doctor.

He’s a true country doctor. So country I’m convinced I could pay him in chickens and he’d give me eggs for change.

He’s caring, funny, intelligent, generous, a good listener — all the things you want in a good friend.

And, man, the guy can get me the drugs.

But do I want to hear, “How ‘bout them Steelers!” from the same guy who moments later will be saying, “Turn your head and cough.”

The majority of the scolds in the prissy medical community say he’s making an ethical boo boo.

This is from an health.net essay: “The short answer is that friendships and any type of relationship beyond strictly professional boundaries are not condoned. It can cloud the judgment of the treating physician and is generally frowned upon for a variety of reasons.”

It goes on to say friendship may cloud the doctor’s professional judgement. They say this like it’s a bad thing.

Nonsense. 

Having the doctor for a friend could save me money, maybe even save my life.

Let’s say I’m Patient A, a locally renown author whose books the country doctor buys and enjoys. I don’t complain or moan when the the blood tests say my Bun/Creatinine Ratio is out of whack. Hell, I don’t even ask him to explain what a Bun/Creatinine Ratio even means as long as it doesn’t have anything to do with the liveliness of my erections, still the whole reason me and all his other male patients come to see him in the first place.

Now, let’s consider hypothetical Patient B. She’s an overweight, chain-smoking hypochondriac who thinks if she doesn’t live forever it’ll be all his fault. She talks her obnoxious politics during the exam (Patient A would never dream of doing so) and to top it all off, she’s a medical malpractice attorney.

So, of course, he’d be acquitted if, given those facts, he admitted to concluding the exam by smothering Patient B with a antiseptic pillow.

It’s a broken analogy, but I welcome the friendship of my doctor with the same exuberance I would if he were one of my crack team of bartenders.

If they like me — and why the hell wouldn’t they? — they may serve me sooner than other thirsty customers, give me stronger pours and inebriate other unsuspecting patrons to the point they’ll purchase my books — just $15 at Tin Lizzy! — while they’re too gooned up to know any better.

Suckers. 

I want my bartender to be my friend. Same goes for my mechanic, my barber, my tailor, my butcher and the usher who shows me to my seat when I go to the ball games.

A little smile, some cheerful conversation, a little human recognition that the world isn’t as mean or as indifferent as it seems.

Why wouldn’t I welcome the same from my doctor?

One aims to save my life. The others make it worth living.

That’s what friends are for.

Related …

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I'm drinking too much & it's all your fault!

(651 words)

First of all, this is NOT about Judge Kavanaugh or his drinking. The only experiences we share are that he admits he got drunk on beer and blacked out and so did I.

The difference is he meant in high school.

 I mean most every Wednesday through Friday since high school.

Many prudent drinkers downplay how much alcohol they’ve consumed.

Me, I tend to romanticize it. A friendly saloon has been my native habitat since my old man took me into Frankie Gustine’s Bar in Oakland back in the ‘70s. Dad moonlighted there as a bartender. I remember walking through those swinging doors and falling in love with the atmosphere, the boisterous characters and the promise I was in a place alive with randy opportunity.

“Dad,” I said, “I’d like change for the jukebox, an ashtray for my smokes and a double Jack Daniels on the rocks — no straw. Buy that pretty little redhead by the window a Sloe Gin Fizz and tell her it’s on me. And don’t wait up for me, old man. I plan on going home with her.”

I was in the 4th grade.

I think that kind of behavior is what people expect out of writers, especially writers whose offices just happen to be located in historic buildings with three distinct and winning bars on three different floors. 

People seem to be disappointed if writers don’t tipple — and I wouldn’t want to disappoint them. 

Blame Papa.

Ernest Hemingway was a larger-than-life and now stereotypical writer/drunk. When people learn my office is above the Tin Lizzy, they often say, “Oh, so, you’re just like Hemingway!”

“That’s right,” I say, “we’re practically indistinguishable. The main difference is he’s the one with all the money, all the prestige, all the success, all the acclaim and all the six-toed cats.”

The 40- to 50-so-called polydactyl cats are the in-bred descendants of white cat named Snow White who was a gift from a wandering sea captain. They’re a highlight of any visit to the Hemingway House in Key West.

Given all those signs of tangible success, I wonder if Hemingway ever wondered if he drank too much.

Lately, I do. I sometimes ask myself if I drink too much. I usually say no. I do this out loud and using two different voices like I'm on stage.

Is such playacting a sign I drink too much?

Either way, I think lately the answer is yes. I am drinking too much.

And you’re to blame.

It’s true. For the first time ever, friendly strangers are eager to come to meet me and hear my stories. And none of them ever say, hey, let’s meet at the barber shop. 

No, they say let’s meet at the Tin Lizzy!

And they’re convivial folk. They want to have a drink and — God bless ‘em — they want to buy me one, too.

On top of all that there’s been an influx of well-wishers who are concerned about my health. Their altruistic intentions don’t make them any less thirsty.

I tell them I feel uncommonly melancholy from a dawning awareness that the number of quality days I have may be fewer than I once anticipated (I hate to break it to you, but the same may be true for you. You just never know).

And today, I’m loathe to walk away from any room where people are either laughing or saying nice things about me.

So, yes, I’m drinking more than I should for reasons I believe most people will appreciate.

In fact, despite my diagnosis, it’s a happy time, one of the best in my what I for a lack of a better word will call my “career.”

I have a little money, a little acclaim, a little prestige and — best of all — a whole lot of friends.

Now if I can only get my hands on a herd of six-toed cats I’ll be all set.

Related …

My history of drinking at or near work

Drunk on the job

No. 1 Party Boy from the No. 1 Party School

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