Tweets of the Month

 

• As a proponent of "make everyday something festive," I was a pioneer promoter for "Christmas in July" (and August, and September and etc ...). Today I told my daughter to quit the summer job, drop out of school and devote her every waking moment to composing 12 Juneteenth in July carols that'll really capture the essence of this great new holiday. 'cause when was the last time you heard a really rockin; Juneteenth carol? So much remains to be explored about this exciting new holiday. Merry Juneteenth everyone!

• Daughter is expressing interest in getting a facial piercing. That is her decision. My opinion is unsought or disregarded. I told her she can do what she wants. “But know this,” I said. “For every piercing, every tattoo marring of your darling appearance, I vow to get the exact same procedure or replica tattoo done on my wrinkled old ass. And if you think you’re embarrassed by my Dad jeans just wait til you get a load on my Dad Speedo.”

• It’s not uncommon to hear bickering couples contend one or the other is putting "words in my mouth." Let that phrase be a cue to romantic detour from hostilities and begin putting things other than words in one another's mouths. Say a piece of candy. Or an ear lobe.

• I know, I know, there are far more pressing matters concerning the issue, but I do a slow burn every time I hear a newscaster call it "an out-of-control wildfire." All wildfires are out of control. That's why we don't call 'em tame fires!

• I was given a tight deadline. Tough to meet. I asked editor if she had any wiggle room. “You bet! You got yourself some wiggle room!” I love wiggle room! All hail wiggle room! I swear, the next home is going to have a wiggle room …

• News that PGA Tour bosses are grabbing their ankles to accommodate murderous Saudis has me furious at all the times my parents dragged us to Sunday school to memorize the gospels when the life lesson from the shady deal can be boiled down to three jiffy words: "Greed is good.”

• Those who think differently, defy convention and act without regard to the scolding opinion of others are individuals. To live otherwise is to risk becoming an UNdividual.

• If I ever have a role in naming another child, I'm going to argue we name the kid with Unisex name, "Guess." Every introduction would reveal so much about the person. Do they get angry or do they chuckle?

"Hi! I'm Amy! What's your name?"

"Guess."

"C'mon. Really. What's your name?"

"Guess."

• I have no idea how they're doing it. War in Ukraine. Uprisings on the streets of Moscow. Economic tumult. Civil unrest. With all that going on, how on earth does the Russian leadership find time to address priority issues like keeping transgender kids from reading all the books they're busy banning?

• Nerve-rattling headlines declare dozens of Moscow war lords fighting for supremacy. Now, I don't contend to know much about matters either military or spiritual and I'm no gambler, but when I read those headlines I think, okay, I'll see all your war lords and raise you just one peace Lord.

• My superiority complex is so complex it can make sense of the implausibility that a man with accomplishments and results as meager as mine can feel superior to MDs, CEOs and people who merely root for teams from places like Boston.

• I one day hope to meet a smokin' hot geologist dedicated to volcanic studies whose name is Ashley Firestone.

• Because their sedentary postures are identical, it’s impossible to tell the difference between an idler and someone lost in thought, I often cry out “Eureka!” when I reach some profound conclusion. Like just now when I decided if I’m going to have the onion rings instead of the fries with lunch tomorrow. “Eureka!”

• I started today thinking about war lords and how you never hear about peace lords. Now I'm thinking about all the other lords and which lord suits me best. There are land lords, drug lords, lordy lords, Jack Lord, sea lord, The House of Lords and slum lords. I've never seen wordlord, bloglord or book lord, so I guess I'm hoping I'll one day be OMa Lord or, cross your fingers, Good Lord.

• We all need a little perspective on these Canadian wildfires. I mean, it's not like Canada is some massive country with billions of acres of freestanding timber. Canada is roughly the size of Connecticut. Right? They both start with C. That's the way it works, right? Or maybe I'm thinking of Cansas. Either way, let's all take a deep breath -- at least those of us who can still do so without choking.

• Used to wake up on hazy mornings like this and assure myself, "It's just a little morning fog. It'll burn off." Now, I'm troubled by the realization, it is NOT a little morning fog. It IS ALL BURN OFF.

Thots on Titan sub & untimely death

 

(648 words)

I blame my years as a young newspaper reporter for why I spend so much time thinking about untimely death.

Back then it was a near daily smorgasbord of reporting on the often violent expirations of hapless Tennesseans. They’d accidentally steer jalopies off cliffs, stumble into the rusty wood chipper, and drunkenly fail to exit the bed after the last cigarette began to singe the sheets.

And after I’d finished each story I’d in my mind put it in one of two categories: “How I’d want to go,” or “Not how I’d want to go.”

So, to me, the death to which I most aspire is to die peacefully in my sleep of multiple gunshot wounds.

It sounds on the surface contradictory. It is not.

See, the first bullet may jar you awake, and you’d be briefly pissed. But bullets four through six will shut your lights out with minimal disruption.

Sleeping next to a snoring spouse is more annoying.

At least, I guess, in the short run.

So that’s how I’d like to go.

What can I say? You’ve got your bucket list. I’ve got my kick-the-bucket-list.

One way I do I not want to go is right now being played out in the chilly waters of the North Atlantic. 

With five souls right now in grievous peril, some may say any lurid discussion of the fate of the crew of the Titan submersible is in poor taste.

Nonsense.

The crew is composed of wealthy bona fide adventurers. They wipe their asses with waivers that in cold legalese warn just what happened really could happen.

They not only mock death. They court it.

They each paid up to $250,000 to secure a voyage on the Titan.

Although at least one of them had flown into outer space, they weren’t the kind of people anyone would describe as “flighty.” I’m sure they and their retainer lawyers did their due diligence and decided the result would be worth the risk.

I have a thousand questions. 

First: do you think they were wearing seatbelts? My vehicle doesn’t move until everyone is buckled up.

Another question: If they, indeed, took every precaution, how come the story doesn’t have a happy ending involving a winch and a surface crew reeling in a really, really long rope with the vulnerable sub on one end and  sweet salvation on the other.

Having a long rope solves many at-sea misfortunes.

Many people say their greatest fear is the fear of dying alone. My greatest fear is dying in a room crowded with many people. 

I think for me the worst part would be the hours and hours of small talk with perfect strangers while awaiting a rescue that may never come.

Imagine the conversations. 

The English woman would say she regretted cheating on her faithful husband. The older Australian dude would say he was sorry he missed out on his kids’ childhood. The guy most like me would repeatedly keep apologizing for the constant farts.

It’d be all me. Me. Me.

Why, I doubt Bob Dylan’s name would even come up.

Who wouldn’t prefer to die all alone? But are we ever all alone?

Homer Simpson didn’t think so. When he was being quizzed about his drinking habits, Marge asked if her hubby ever drank alone. Homer responded by asking if God counted as a person.

Yes, I’d want God for my co-pilot in any situation when death seemed imminent.

I’d thank Him for such sweet life, for the love so many of His children shared with me, and for such a laughter filled life.

I’d say I was sorry for all my sins, my sloth, gluttony and for holding to many petty grudges.

And I’d ask Him to forgive me for in a world in need of so much urgent prayer, I chose to write jocular things like this.

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What we used to call Tweets of the Month...

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• I swear, if I were a lumberjack, I’m certain I’d spend less time jackin’ lumber and more time sitting in the shade pondering what to me is the root question of the profession: “Okay, the boss ordered me to cut this tree down. And as soon as I do he’ll order me to cut the tree up. Down! Up! Up! Down! Make up your mind! … Or is it make it down?” It ain’t easy having the brain of a free-range chicken.

• Thought of showing solidarity with my striking Hollywood writing brothers and sisters until I realized how impractical it would be, what with pals forever inviting me to cross my own Tin Lizzy picket line and join them inside for a drink. #ChrisCross

• Book facts: “Evan & Elle” vs. “The Holy Bible”

The “Holy Bible”  contains 783,137 words, none of which is the word Bible. It’s true: The word “Bible” does not appear in The Bible.  “Evan & Elle” is 85,842 words long, 17 of which are the word Bible. Also, the word “begat” is used 139 times in the Bible, but not once in my book. Yet 9 times in my book, “hot tub” is used  and it appears not even once in The Bible. Then there is this: The Holy Bible sells roughly 100 million copies each year. In almost one year, “Evan & Elle” has sold 133 copies. What all this means, I cannot fathom, but this much I know ... my next book is going to have a heckuva lot more begatting than “Evan & Elle.”

• Just finished my morning banana. Looking for a place to safely dispose of the hazardous peel. Even though I find slapstick  comedies about guys slipping on carelessly discarded banana peels hilarious, I wouldn't want to risk injuring an innocent. I wonder if monkeys are so careful. I'd think Monkeyland would be an endless carnival of primate pratfalls. I wonder if monkeys laugh when another monkey slips on a peel. Some days I wish I were a monkey.

• It is generally agreed there are 600,000 words in the English language. But until we find another word for trunk, which describes both the front of an elephant and the back of a car, confusion will rain, er, reign.

• My fear is that another unforeseen consequence of climate change is when the weather forecasters say, “It’s really comin’ down in buckets,” they’ll be speaking factually. A typical 5-gallon bucket full of water weighs about 45 lbs, enough to shred even the sturdiest umbrella. Cities will be leveled. Cat-’n’-dog precipitation will be even more gruesome. Old-timers like me will sit in shelters and regale the kiddos with our folksy stories of what it used to be like back when rain was just rain.

• Just read that Napoleon said one hour-long bath is the restorative equivalent to four hours sleep. Some will read that and use it to justify luxuriating in a nice warm bath for maybe an hour every once in a while. I go full extrapolation. Eight hour-long baths each and every day! Vive la France!

• I was blown away stuck in traffic today when my 16-year-old out-of-the-blue said just 2 words: "You're good". I immediately choked up and said, "Well, I try. I know I'm not the best provider, the hardest worker or drive the nicest car, but to have a daughter willing to say outloud what I pray she in her heart believes means I must be doing something right." She said that's not what she meant. The traffic had parted and she was telling me it was safe to proceed. 

• Coronation coverage spurred me to finally learn the identity of the neighboring properties adjacent to No. 10 Downing St. The world-famous address just seems so ordinary. That's because it is. Turns out No. 9 Downing St. is ... a Sheetz convenience mart! What's at No. 11 Downing St? Another Sheetz! I didn't research what's at Nos. 8 and 12 Downing, but I'm sensing a trend.

• There are 7.88 billion people on this angry planet. Just imagine how many there’d be if there were no wars or insane violence inflicted on one another? We’d all be stepping on one another’s toes. Maybe war and insane violence are God’s way of controlling the population. I mean imagine a world without victims. Imagine.

• Daughter just came back from a disappointing dinner with friends. Said the waitress was rude. Abrupt. Indifferent. I told her there are going to be people like that, people who resent her and her friends for their youth, their appearance, their optimism and their long, beautiful hair. Almost had her believing it until I blurted out, “Happens to me all the time!”

• When push comes to shove, I'm fine with push coming to shove. My problem is that today in America we go straight from shove to semi-automatic assault weapons. I'm growing nostalgic for the days when people used to be satisfied when all they hurt were my feelings. 

• it’s not uncommon to hear people complain things are so tight they're on a shoestring budget, meaning they have little money. Don't let me hear you bitching about that. At least, I say, you can afford shoestrings. It's way worse for me. Always broke. No work. I guess that means I'm on a loafer's budget.

• Was seeking a word to describe reader-relationship to my books and thought of “beloved.” It’s a good word, but a bit presumptuous. Too bad there isn’t “beliked.” Betolerated doesn’t exist either. Good thing because if it did I’d feel obliged to use it in relation to my precarious family situation. It would be considered unbecoming and from my home I’d likely be going

• It’s not uncommon to hear older men wistfully refer to lost loves as “the one that got away.” Now, these guys are my friends, but I knew them then and I know them now. They didn’t get away. They fled. At full speed. Like from altar to 60 mph in 3 seconds. They burned rubber. They were Bandit. You were Smokey. 

• I can imagine there is no heaven. It’s easy if I try. No hell below us. Above us only sky. I can imagine all the people living for today. I can imagine many things, but I cannot for the life of me imagine a world without bacon.

• I was trying to teach a bone-headed young friend of the value of spending, say, $140 on a fancy shirt while you’re young and affluent, as he is. “I just can’t see spending $140 on a shirt,” he said. I told him it’s only a $140 shirt the first time you wear it. Then it becomes a $70 shirt. Then the next wear it’s a $35 shirt. “Why I have some shirts I bought in 2001 that cost me mere pennies per wear and every time I wear it, I feel a surge of tastefulness amidst all the compliments.” He said, “Yeah, but I can’t see spending $140 on a shirt.” Know what I think? I should spend less time trying in vain to educate overpaid young boneheads and more time hearing style tips from my friends Kevin & Bob at Lapels in Greensburg. 

• My superiority complex is so complex it can make sense of the implausibility that a man with accomplishments and results as meager as mine can feel superior to MDs, CEOs and people who merely root for teams from places like Boston.

• The first Memorial Day was commemorated May 30, 1868. Organizers believed the day was necessary so we would never forget the cruel sacrifices of war. Today’s headlines feature news of war in Ukraine, Sudan, Myanmar, Syria, Somalia, Columbia, Afghanistan, Ecuador, etc. And in case you haven’t noticed, things are getting a mite tense right here at home. Ah, war,  how can we ever forget ya? You’ve never gone away.

• I’d be lying if I said I was happy to have succumbed to male pattern baldness, but if it had to happen I’m relieved it happened years before I ever had to look in the mirror during the morning groom and ask the question: Let’s see for today: Man bun or no man bun?

• In my restless quest to funnel money from my brain into Buck 's pocket, I'm going to urge him to re-brand the Tin Lizzy basement bar as a trendy boutique winery that'll appeal to deep-pocket hipsters who enjoy being in on the joke. Coming soon (probably not), 'The Grapes of Rathskeller!'"

It's true: Fred Rogers & Arnold Palmer never got along

 

(674 words)

I’m proud that all my books and subsequent talks are all about spreading happiness and understanding. My aim is to uplift the downtrodden.

So why is it one of the things I’m sure my audience always remembers most is something most distressful?

I guess it’s because no one wants to believe that Arnold Palmer and Fred Rogers never got along.

It’s true.

Two of the warmest, most gracious and historically kind men didn’t like the thought of being in the same room together. Heck, it seems they didn’t like having to share Latrobe.

How do I know?

The realization came to me incrementally.

The first hint — and it was a blunt one — came in June 2004. I was in Palmer’s office days after George W. Bush had awarded him the Presidential Medal of Freedom, the highest civilian honor the U.S. can bestow.

I congratulated him and said, “How about Latrobe winning two Presidential Medals of Freedom in the last two years!”

I’d startled him. “Who won before I did?” he asked.

“Why, Fred Rogers won in 2002,” I said.

“He did? …

“Damn it.”

I thought his instinctual reaction was hilarious. After all, here was a renown competitor so sensitive to coming in 2nd he begrudged a hometown classmate for beating him to a rare honor. And not only was the winner worthy, he was beloved around the world for many of the same reasons as Palmer.

And his reaction stuck with me. Could I have misread the situation?

I’d every once in a while try to sleuth some answers.

Try this: Google “Arnold Palmer” and “Fred Rogers.” There is not one single picture of the pair together.

Big deal, you say?

They were one year apart in school; Fred is 13 months senior to Palmer and graduated in ’46, Palmer in ’47.

Within 10 years of graduation both had achieved notoriety and were well on their way to enduring international fame.

What does a small town do with a pair like that? It puts them in the Fourth of July parades. It features them at ribbon cuttings. It puts them mugging for the camera on the front page of the local paper.

Not one picture.

.

There are more pictures of Palmer and me.

Well, they were busy men, some will say. There’d have been scheduling conflicts.

There may well have been.

But three decades' worth?

“Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood"  ran from 1968 through 2001. The years coincide with the years Palmer was one of the most popular men on the planet. He’d already won armloads of international championships, presidents and royals alike sought his company and his warmth was considered so genuine, many of Americas most reputable brands showered him with cash just to have his name associated with their products.

But he was never once on a show that had “neighbor” in the title and starred a man who was an actual small town neighbor. They could have talked about old teachers, school dances, old flames, etc. They could have talked about the golf lessons Fred took from Arnie's old man, the local pro.

Instead of Palmer, featured guests included ballerinas, cops, cobblers, steel workers, nurses, athletes — friends from all walks of life. 

He even had a talking gorilla named Koko on in ’98.

I envision a production meeting where they’re discussing potential guests and someone says, “Well, we’re down to two. We could ask Arnold Palmer or we could ask Koko, the Talking Gorilla.”

I see Fred leaning back in his chair and saying, “Well, let’s ask the gorilla. If he says no, then let’s ask Palmer.”

Over 31 years and 912 episodes, there was not even a mention of Arnold Palmer.

Fascinating. I’ll leave it up to the speculators to divine who’s to blame for the apparent life-long rift between two of the most famously gracious men ever to walk the planet. 

I think it’s upsetting because we’re left to conclude, gee, if Arnold Palmer and Fred Rogers can’t overcome their petty differences, what chance do the rest of us have?

It seems we’re fated to endure lives of squabble and bitterness.

It is inescapable.

Damn it.

(All Chris's books can be bought through www.ChrisRodell.com; storyteller@chrisrodell.com; 724 961-2558)

My unwanted adventure inside the women's restroom

 

(757 words)

I mistakenly found myself on the culture war front lines Saturday at an otherwise innocent golf bash..

And, yep, my penis was partly to blame.

It by mistake led me into the ladies' room.

It’s where conservatives believe the about 1.4 percent of Americans who identify as transgender are massing to present temptations that likely would have sent Adam & Eve scrambling all over Eden searching for some sort of early owner’s manual.

The conservatives don’t want even a single penis in the ladies room. After Saturday, I can relate.

I’d been invited to sign Arnold Palmer books (primarily) at the Somerset Golf Bash at the vast Bakersville Banquet Hall. I’d have a table set up right by the entrance guaranteeing heavy foot traffic. Plus the emcee/host is a friend of mine and an articulate advocate of my books. 

And this is all in front of 300 golfers there to spend money to win golf equipment, trips and memorabilia. How many books under those advantageous circumstances do you think I sold: Twenty-five? Fifty? More?

I sold eight. I’m aware many writers would view this as yet another career humiliation. Not me.

Here’s how I did the math:

I was there from 11 to 4. Walked in with nothing; departed with $160; spent time laughing with old friends and made some new ones. Ate free and was given a little yellow wrist band that meant I was master of my sobriety.

I could drink as much or as little as I wanted — For free! I decided to err on the side of getting a little shitfaced.

Yes, I gave in to a good long guzzle. It was fun. My table mate was a recent Pitt graduate. He’d read the Palmer book and was a fan. I wasn’t driving.

Sticking to sobriety under the circumstances would have felt like a criminal betrayal of all the drinking buddies who’ve stood, er, swayed unevenly by me through so many unforgettable times neither of us will ever remember.

So I’m having fun and am just a bit north of tipsy. That’s no excuse. I’ve been having fun and been north of tipsy since the 4th grade and don’t remember missing the restroom sign. 

But this was the first time I had the guy in the mustard-stained sweater on my mind.

The stranger reminded me of my Dad, as sweet a man who ever lived, albeit one whose every garment looked like it had been worn smock-like to paint the pantry with French’s yellow mustard.

But he appeared to be so happy, being out with golfers anticipating the season. Again I thought of Dad.

The stain was on his lower back on the side that if he were a car it would be referred to as the passenger side. 

Some careless hotdog eater had perhaps brushed up against him and smeared the condiment on a sweater you just knew he cherished. The spineless assailant then just slinked away, too cowardly to confess.

That’s just what I would have done, too, by the way.

I was left with no good options. Tell him and it ruins his day. Don’t tell him and he may be ridiculed. Then there was the third option. Say nothing, do nothing and walk straight into the nearest restroom like you own the place. I don’t know how I missed the signs, but I was consumed with helpless thoughts of this dude’s mustard-stained sweater

I remember noting there were no urinals. I didn’t care. There were no women either, and an abundance of women are a telltale sign in any womens room.

I found an open stall door, entered, used my foot to lift the seat and then began to  contribute depth to the bowl contents.

It didn’t get interesting until I opened the stall door. . There were five or six women. It was like the ladies room had been invaded — by ladies!

One woman, the aggressor, asked what I was doing in there. 

I bit my tongue when I came close to reflexively answering, “My name is Chris Rodell and I’m here to tell you all about Arnold Palmer!”

She was scowling. There was an edge in her voice that let me know she was deciding whether or not a tasing was justified.

I apologized — it was sincere — and made a hasty exit. 

It was an innocent mistake. And like so many others that came before and will surely come again, assigning blame was a cinch.

Yes, it was all the fault of yet another man being careless with his wiener. 

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Non-Tweets of the month

 

For the record, none of these "tweets" ever appeared on Twitter. I'm fed up with Musk. Tired of the repeated password exchange. Done with reading news about blue checks, etc. Still, these are best described as tweet-like, so ...

• SnapChat, Instagram, TikTok — 10 years ago none of us had ever heard of these. Now, they’re taking over the world. It’s a Planet of the Aps.

• A military history buff, I enjoy seeing film of great generals discussing how they made key decisions that led to victory/defeat and upon which nations rise or fall. Kind of reminds me of my wife and I  explaining how our daily Wordle went from 3 guesses to 6

• Yes, I'm aware that Sing Sing is a maximum security prison that incarcerates many of New York's most vicious cutthroats, but every time I hear Sing Sing I convince myself that Sing Sing is a maximum hilarity prison populated entirely by wrongly convicted Muppets.

• Just so she’ll never need reminding that at one time this great nation could confront head-on the really big issues, if we ever have another daughter I’m going argue we should name her, “She/Her/Hers.”

• I’m becoming convinced this 2-pound device is the most excessively engineered piece of equipment in the world. It weighs nearly 2 pounds and all it does is bend a malleable thread of wire that weighs slightly more than a sheaf of butterfly eyelashes. I don’t hold it against the stapler. I blame the staple. The man/woman who invents a simple, safe and effective “pinch” staple will make a fortune. I’m workin’ on it!

• French Gen. Jean-Baptist Kleber was in 1800 assassinated by a Egyptian nationalist. To dissuade future attacks, an 8-foot pike was inserted into the assailant's rectum clear to his still-beating heart. So if things start getting dull and you hear me say, "I have an idea! Let's go find a French general, insult him, and see what happens next," promise you'll distract me with card tricks or a pickleball match until the urge passes.

• I’m grateful for all of you who’ve told me you’re rooting —praying, even — for something good to happen to me. Well, last night driving home from class (it had gone great so I was in a good mood) it happened. I decided I’d stop at Sheetz for a small Blue Raspberry Slushie. Kid at the register said it was his treat. A $1.48 freebie! I asked why. He said I looked like a guy who needed a free Slushie. I thanked him and immediately began trying to look like a guy who needed a fast $50,000.

• I wonder if even considerate stink bugs give up on things like washing their hands after going to the bathroom or if they figure, "What's the point? Either way, everyone's still going to say, 'Hold your nose, here comes the stink bug.’’'

• Some men wake up terrified of illicit behavior being exposed. Some fear responsibility. Me? I wake up with the dreadful realization that with each passing day the teachers we grade-schoolers used to viciously mock as being mean old witches are becoming young enough to be my granddaughters.

• I found peace in the trans controversy after concluding that, not only is there evidence of LGBTQ behavior throughout the animal kingdom, there is at least one breed that appears to be in an endless trans cycle. Behold the Poodle! I've never seen a single poodle that looked like it was comfortable with his/her gender. Every poodle looks like it's in a perpetual state of transitioning. Yes, in some complicated matters, many turn to the Bible; others to science. Me? I look to the poodle!

• Dreams are like kites. It’s rare to achieve liftoff without there being at least one string attached. 

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  • How come it took the firing of Tucker Swanson McNear Carlson to learn that Tucker Swanson McNear Carlson's full name is Tucker Swanson McNear Carlson. Maybe I'm sensitive because I have no middle name. But this much I know: If I'd have grown up with either of his middle names the mean kids would have stolen my lunch money mcnearly every single day.

• I remain perhaps foolishly optimist that someday soon great fortune and recognition will at last be mine. Yet I now worry that within hours of the windfall some killjoy doctor will inform me I’ve got 48 hours to live. Don’t let that depress you. We can have a lot of fun in 48 hours

• My attempts to philosophize through the Happy Hour tanked when morons pulled out their phones and forced me to look at pictures of their kids/cars/home improvements/etc. The Art of Conversation has descended into the Graffiti of Digital Blathering.

•A hypochondriac is a person who is abnormally concerned about his or her health. A person who is abnormally concerned about error-free messages, stories or posts is a typochondriac.

• I’d have liked to have been in the classroom to have felt the palpable rage, the visceral contempt, when the high school calculus teacher said, "You'd better pay attention, mister, because this is something you're going to need every day for the rest of your life," and see the student she was lecturing was Bob Dylan.

• I tend to keep a wallet for 2 or 3 years or until I can sense it'll  never be cash prolific. For that I blame the wallet. I sense it's lazy, that it repels cash. I figure if it can't be flush after 2 coddling years, it never will. In the last 35 years Ii've probably had 17 wallets. Same work ethic.

Admiring student says he wants to become interesting -- like me!

 

(754 words)

An admiring student of mine flattered me by saying he wants to become interesting “just like me.”

At least I think he was admiring. He could have just been very adept at brown nosing, a tactic I’ll fall for every single time. Bona fide flatterer or skillful butt smoocher, it all has the same effect: A kid who was borderline failing has now vaulted to the top of the class.

It’s so effective I think I’ll describe the technique on the first page of next semester’s syllabus.

Here’s a portion of what he wrote: 

“I remember after the first week of the semester a coworker asked me to use one word to describe each of my professors. I used the word "Intimidating" (IN A GOOD WAY) for you. Listening to other people tell stories and ramble has always been interesting to me. So meeting someone as good at the 'storytelling' craft as you was like meeting the 'FINAL BOSS' of observers. Very rare to meet somebody that talks smart but doesn't talk boring, and that is exactly what you do. My question: How do you do it?”

It’s really a very good question, right up there with, for God’s sake, how come I can’t convert this admirable characteristic into actual income?

I understand his yearning. Understand it perfectly. Being a good storyteller was what I wanted to become when I was his age.  I remember being mesmerized by men and women telling stories of their triumphs, their failures. It’s always been there but in my case, it became acute in the Music City taverns and honky tonks.

It was there in Nashville I began to understand that whether it was good or bad, every single thing that happened in my life could become a story worth telling — as long as it was told with bedrock honesty. 

I made it my life’s mission to become a compelling storyteller, a raconteur.

Raconteur is a 19th Century French word meaning “to tell.” So any moron with a mouth can be a raconteur.

But a good one will first spend many, many years engaged in the act of — another French word warning! — auditicie.

That word means “to listen.”

I didn’t become a true storyteller until I had a treasure chest of great stories I’d heard from other people. Unless you’re an astronaut or maybe a pilot who’s landed a commercial jetliner on the Hudson River, your stories about yourself are unlikely to hold anyone’s attention. They inevitably come across as boastful.

It’s like I always say about becoming interesting (it’s one of my favorite lines): “Those who want to appear more colorful get tattoos. Those who want to become more colorful get library cards.”

So you need to find out where the colorful people — good and bad — hang out.

I find many of them in divey bars. They have sketchy backgrounds, angry dispositions, an outstanding warrant or two.

I have many good friends from church who confess to being sinners and are ashamed of it. And I’m friends with guys in bars who confess to being sinners and they brag about it.

Which is the more compelling character?

And then there’s this to consider: there are two types of listeners. Actual listeners and those who give the impression they’re actually listening.

Being the latter is far preferable

An actual listener smiles and nods sympathetically, all the while preparing to offer salient advice that’s never sought. Most people simply want to talk to anyone who simply smiles and nods. They don’t want your lousy advice and may, in fact, respond with hostility once it’s offered.

The reaction leads the actual listener to feelings of uselessness and burnout and inevitably they end up back in the bar hoping to sit next to someone who’ll merely smile and nod, smile and nod.

At his or her heart every really good raconteur enjoys being human and enjoys human beings.

Struggle with those essentials?

Befriend an elderly neighbor, volunteer at a local animal shelter or join a church choir. Or you could do what I did.

Read Mark Twain.

I recommend starting with the broadly delightful travelogues, “Following The Equator,” “Life on the Mississippi” and “Innocents Abroad.”

These books exude humanity in all its glory and are told by America’s greatest storyteller. 

I could go on and on. The topic is that dear to me. But I sense some of you are beginning to smile and nod, smile and nod. So that’s plenty. 

As always, thanks for listening.

Or at least appearing to. 

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