My hour with the world's most boring man

(753 words)

When it was finally over, when the onslaught was complete, the three of us looked at each other the way I guess survivors of a storm at sea do.

It was like we’d spent the hour clinging to life rafts against a tide so ceaseless it threatened to swamp all in its path.

Compared to Joe, we were just dinghies against the current.

We can now wonder where he went and if he’ll be back, but none of us who were exposed to him has any doubt what he is doing right now.

He is talking.

In a lifetime of listening I’ve never heard a more prolific talker. The man could talk the ears off an acre of corn.

I walked in at 6 p.m. Bill was tending bar. It was just me, Gary, and a graying gent who immediately introduced himself as Joe.

Now, The Pond is already rich with Joes. As I’ve said before, it’s a bar full of Regular Joes, eight of them conveniently named Joe.

There’s Plumber Joe, Tequila Joe, Big Joe, Little Joe, Baseball Joe, No Show Joe, Mailman Joe and Game Show Joe.

Now we have the man we’ll surely call Talking Joe, a name that’s descriptive while failing to do justice to the true majesty of his gift.

To me, he’s The Grand Can-Yawn.

One of the things I relish about The Pond is that the nerve-rattling loud mouths are few and generally well-behaved. Many of the regulars are large stoics, large and stoic enough to make the big enigmatic stones on Easter Island seem chatty.

In fact, the stoics rule is often so complete the only sound you hear is the simultaneous hardening of all the arteries.

It’s a very peaceful place to sit and get soused.

I’ve known Gary and Bill for a total of about 20 years. This is bound to sound like an exaggeration, but after just one hour I now know more about Talking Joe than I know about either of my friends.

Joe’s wife is a waitress who likes egg drop soup when her stomach’s upset. Her boss is a real jerk who takes an unfair cut from her table tips, never throws a staff Christmas party and might be soured on life because of prior family tragedy.

His son has a good job at the airport, but thinks it would be better if they unionized. The kid just got a Harley sportster for $7,500. He thinks he got a great deal, but the high handlebars on those sportsters make his back ache.

Joe likes action movies, thinks the world would welcome a Jean Claude Van Damme comeback, and always gets the big popcorn even though he knows the price means he’s getting screwed.

I was seated immediately to his left. Gary was three stools to his right so most of his focus was on me.

Bill? He was as far away from the Joe end of the bar as he could possibly be. He was three feet and one brick wall away from being outside the building. Bill’s the exact opposite of Joe. He’s a man of few words, 80 percent of which are profane.

And Joe went on and on.

He talked taxes. He talked lawn care. He talked candy bars. He talked pretzels. He talked Pedro Alvarez. He talked balloons.

At one point I remember thinking, wow, this is the most self-centered, boring jerk I’ve ever met.

And when he got up to leave he redeemed himself with something so endearing we were all glad we’d been there to meet him. 

“Hey, Bill, buy these guys a drink,” he said, pushing Bill a pile of money that included a nice tip. “Fellas, I know I talk a lot. I just can’t help myself. Thanks for putting up with me. You guys are the best.”

And with that he was gone.

He’d said -- who knows? -- maybe 20,000 worthless words, but with those last few managed to reveal so much tender humanity I felt like giving the big talker a big hug.

I guess some people just have to talk even as they realize they have absolutely nothing to say.

That means some of us sometimes just have to listen.

I hope Joe comes back. I hope his endless talking eases some of his stresses and that he has a great time the next time he wanders into The Pond to blow off some steam.

I just hope when he does I’m two miles away at The Tin Lizzy.

Related . . .

Regular bar patrons need personal seat licenses

Wingin’ it at The Pond

Zombies at The Pond

Philipsburg, Montana, wants me (and you)!

(726 words)

The note betrayed courtesy that seemed to me uncommon among most Montana sportsmen. It informed me I was in the crosshairs.

Headhunters are after me and my family. Yours, too.

I doubt any of the area big game elk or deer receive similar e-mailed warnings.

Of course, those who are after me aren’t planning on mounting my trophy head up above the fireplace mantle in some den or tavern. I think.

No, they want us to up the population of Philipsburg from 840 to 844.

Check this out from www.MoveToPburg.com:

“Philipsburg is looking for a few good families.  In an effort to shore-up its declining elementary school enrollment, the tiny Montana Silver Rush town (pop. 840) is putting out a formal call for its next wave of pioneers - this time the New Millennium kind. The local Rotary Club and community leaders have launched a yearlong media campaign targeting the growing members of the new economy who can "telework" anyplace they choose.  Those workers include dot-com employees, freelancers and sellers on sites like eBay.  People who need only broadband, UPS and perhaps occasional trips through the nearby Missoula International Airport to make a living.  The town believes its blue ribbon trout streams, a 9-to-1 student/teacher ratio in its schools, a low-traffic hospital, hiking, hunting, skiing,  zero crime and a perfectly preserved jewel of a mining town are an unbeatable combination for young families seeking a more picturesque small town life. Men's Journal recently named Philipsburg "America's Coolest Town to Live in the Past" and many of the town's residents, new and old, think it is a perfect place to live in the future.”

What are we waiting for? Sounds perfectly charming, doesn’t it?

And it sounds like they’ll take anybody. Did you see it said freelancers?

Freelancers!

That’s me!

Heck, not even the come-one, come-all Statue of Liberty specifically mentions freelancers.

If you’re like me, you’re probably looking out the window right now thinking, “Yeah, Montana. Why not? I can be just as broke there as I am here.”

There’s such an appeal to the idea of starting fresh in a town where no one knows anything about you.

They don’t know you were a dork in high school, that you were once busted for shoplifting or that your ex-wife left you for the slick plastic surgeon who installed the sporty new boobs she talked you into buying her for Christmas.

New state/clean slate.

There should be a precise formula for individuals to gauge if they’ll be more missed where they live or more welcomed where they’re going.

We’ve lived here in Latrobe for 21 years and have deep roots. We have many friends here, are active in the community and if there are those who dislike us they must feel out-numbered enough to keep it to themselves.

But I think they’d love us in Montana.

Stay in any one place for too long and people are bound to take you for granted.

That happened with me just this weekend. I spent about eight straight catatonic hours watching U.S. Open golf from my big easy chair. 

Any time I’d get up to go take a leak, I’d hear one of the girls muttered something like, “Geez, I thought he’d never leave.”

And it was Father’s Day!

I told some friends I was considering heading west. They said they’d hate to see me go. I said I’d consider staying if they agreed to begin mowing our lawn, cleaning our gutters and spending the weekends ensuring every resident has bought their share of Girl Scout cookies and copies of “Use All The Crayons!”

One said that was the kind of counter offer sure to help ease the sting of our leaving.

It sounds like Philipsburg will be happy if all we do is show up and send our kids to school and cheer for the home team.

Still, I was hoping for a bit more so I replied to the e-mail to see if the organizer would provide some gratis to sweeten the deal.

It’s been two weeks and I still haven’t heard back.

I guess maybe they’re more picky than they’re letting on.

Either that or my demands led them to confuse this freelancer with a freeloader and they’ve already got their quota of those.

Related . . .

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Father's Day Re-Run: Forever in Blue Jeans

This ran in October 2009 and had more to do with blue jeans than dads. But I've come to think of it as a Father's Day story. It, to me, seems to say a lot about fathers, sons and how we live our lives. Of course, maybe I'm wrong. Maybe it is all about blue jeans. Either way, Happy Father's Day!

I knew I’d taken another leap toward insanity when I stared into the dresser drawer, the one dedicated to denim, saw six pairs of nearly identical blue jeans and thought: “Hmmm, maybe it's time to spring for another pair of blue jeans.”

And it’s true. I do need another pair.

I have my church blue jeans, my casual dress up blue jeans, my outdoor work blue jeans, and my trusty bar blue jeans (three pair).

It’s another reminder of the ways I don’t measure up to the old man.

Daddy never wore blue jeans.

He was an optician, a profession that doesn’t exactly stack up with lumberjacks and oil derrick leathernecks on the hombre scale.

But the man had style. He was always careful about his appearance and paid attention to how he looked. No matter the task, he always managed to wear spiffy clothing -- or at least half of him did. I’ll never forget the times I’d see him, shirtless, hunkering down in the garden out back, a posture that inevitably led to him unintentionally mooning the neighbors as he labored over the sprawl of zucchini.

I never got to ask him, he died in 2004, why he didn’t own jeans. But I suspect I know the answer: He thought they made him look poor.

I believe men from his august generation, the ones like my Dad who grew up poor, spent their lives trying to ensure they never looked it.

Sadly, my generation does the opposite.

I know many fine and dandy attorneys and bankers who dress as if they were as financially inconsequential as, well, underemployed freelance writers.

They never touch a lawn mower or a chain saw, yet they forever dress during their social time as if they were about to go dig a ditch.

Me, I enjoy outdoor work, but it’s ridiculous to own six pairs of blue jeans when all most of them do is protect my butt from an angry spring on poorly upholstered stool 7 down at the neighborhood tavern.

It’s an undeniable pity that as us men have gotten softer, our clothes have gotten tougher.

The toughest Americans ever, the continent conquerors who labored under Lewis & Clark, robed themselves, not in rugged blue jeans and steel-toed boots, but in animal skin and mocassins. They didn’t practice yoga, engage in team building exercises or require therapeutic counseling when a supply raft dashed against the rocks and sank all their jerky.

But just listen to the bitching in any airport from men in designer jeans who become incensed that United Airlines is charging them an extra $50 to tote their golf sticks cross country to Palm Springs for five days of desert recreation.

And, here’s a secret: Blue jeans, even the posh ones, aren’t all the comfortable. They’re stiff. There’s no give. They bind in places no real man likes to be bound.

It’s a true triumph of marketing that Americans spend about $14 billion on blue jeans each year. If the pants are so durable, how come every year we keep needing to purchase more and more of them?

I suppose we have James Dean to blame for all this. It was him in the 1955 movie “Rebel Without a Cause” that started the transformation that led jeans from jeans being a perfectly utilitarian article of clothing to items of gaudy fashion that retail for hundreds of dollars.

There should be some sort of study about how the rise of the blue jean has coincided with the decline of the men who wear them.

I’d do it myself, but I need to rush out to the department store and buy a fourth pair of bar jeans before lunch.

The baseball playoffs start today and that means plenty of bar time. I don’t want risk having to set my soft ass down on stool 7 without the manly protection of a really tough garment that’s up to the task.

"Crayons!" fan letters, tantalizing leads & my 1st heckler

(764 words)

Write fan letters to obscure actors or musicians. Chances are they’ll write back and will fondly remember your goodhearted encouragement when they – cross your fingers – become rich and famous.

The above is tip No. 147 from “Use All The Crayons!” I never dreamed some stranger would apply that very line to me.

But there it is right there in this latest Amazon review of the book. It’s the fourth one down titled, “Feel good childish laughter.” It’s a four-star review that reads to me like an eight-star.

The woman, Melissa, wrote me a very nice note saying she’d been browsing some self-help audio books at her library, found mine, listened to it twice and wanted to drop me a quick note saying how much she enjoyed it. 

It’s the kind of thing that just makes my day. 

Given her reaction, I asked if she wouldn’t mind posting a quick review. She said she’d be glad, to.

I’m tickled by her line that me writing her back gave her a “total fan girl moment.”

See, I’m not Ringo Starr. If anyone writes me, I’m writing them right back.

It doesn’t matter what you write either. Say nice things and I’ll write back I’m flattered. Say mean things and I’ll write back that my feelings are hurt, but thanks for taking the time to write even mean things.

I think I have a real need for attention.

Reactions like Melissa’s and that of so many others encourages me to press on in the belief that one day my trajectory will follow that of above tip no. 147.

I had a really great moment about six weeks ago when a prestigious editor at Redbook instantly returned my e-mail offering reasons why she should review my book for their 2.2 million readers. Said she’d love to see a copy.

I was thrilled.

Can you imagine what that kind of publicity would do for a struggling author? It would be enormous. I guarantee you it would be the kind of catalyst that would lead to a cascade of further publicity, best seller sales and lucrative speaking engagements.

For me, it was a dream come true.

We had a friendly and encouraging exchange of e-mails that concluded with me asking her her favorite colors.

She has two. They are blue and green.

I overnighted her a shiny crayon-signed (blue and green) copy of the book everyone’s falling in love and waited to hear back.

The next afternoon I sent a four-word e-mail to my powerful new buddy to check and make sure the book arrived.

No response.

Two weeks later I sent another e-mail asking to see if she’s had a chance to peek at the book.

No response.

Last week I sent an e-mail warning her that I think one of her colleagues must have  hacked into her e-mail and sent me a series of friendly and encouraging notes under her name just to mess with Sasquatch.

Nothing.

That, for me, is the cruelest type of exchange. And it happens more than you think.

I can only conclude that many powerful and successful New York editors were raise by wolves.

I was not. I was raised by wonderful people who knew wonderful people.

I was reminded of this Wednesday evening at my “Use All The Crayons!” whoop-de-doo at the Mt. Lebanon Public Library.

About 20 people showed up. There were so many great old neighbors, parents of friends and a dear friend who was my homeroom buddy for four years in high school.

It was wonderful.

And my Mom came, too!

I spoke for one hour completely without notes.

See, I do believe something soon will happen where I’ll be invited to do more speaking engagements and I want to be sharp.

I think I was. Everyone seemed to enjoy it and I sold 15 books. Several of those in attendance brought pre-purchased books for me to sign.

I guess the highlight of the night was when after about 50 minutes of unfettered yammering from me, I paused and asked if anyone had any questions.

Mom raised her hand and said, “Can we go home now?”

My first heckler!

If I’d have had security I’d have had security throw her butt out.

But it’s that kind of sass that ought to give you some idea as to why my manners are superior to those of big city magazine editors.

And, yes, you can all go home now.

Have a great weekend and Happy Father’s Day!

Related . . . 

Ringo tired of being a Starr?

Reject me, please

Hilary Swank & all my neighborhood nipples

(634 words)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now, I’m 50. I am by any standard an old man in my neighborhood.

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

And there’s a lot to let hang out.

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

And he’s a disgusting, hairy slob.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Of course, who am I to judge?

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

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

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

Related . . .

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Breast facts by the book

Mom's coming to my Lebo book signing!

(716 words)

I have disappointing news for anyone planning on attending my 7 p.m. book signing tomorrow at the Mt. Lebanon Public Library. My 80-year-old mother will be attending and you all know what that means.

No profanity. No nudity.

Of course, I can’t speak for Mom. She’s always been a bit of a free spirit.

Giving a presentation or something that aims at being humorous in front of your parents is a real challenge.

And humor, indeed, is my aim.

I can’t do drama or profound revelation. No one’s going to show up to watch me try and solve even a basic math equation, something that would only be funny to the mean-spirited and just plain pathetic to everyone else.

These are called book signings, but that seems awfully presumptuous to me. 

First off, that assumes anyone else is going to show up. It might just wind up being me and Mom with her going through her hamper-sized purse and every four minutes asking me if I’d like a stick of gum.

Second, calling it a book signing hints that books will be sold. There’s no guarantee of that, either.

Maybe no one will be in a buying mood. Or maybe I’ll be so charmed by the welcome I’ll spontaneously decide to give my entire stock away. The gesture would in equal measures delight my Mom while infuriating my wife.

Either way I try and keep expectations down in the basement, which is coincidentally where I’m scheduled to speak so soaring eloquence tomorrow might not make a difference.

One of these days I’m going to start off by walking directly to the podium and going straight into a reading. No howdies. No introductory gab.

None of the great rock band comes out and and spends about four of five minutes giving some idle chat about who they are and what they’ve been up to. No, they blast right into a real rocker to seize on the throng’s enthusiasm.

This might be difficult for me to do. I’m likely to be engaged in idle chat with everyone that walks through the door. I’m guessing I’ll already be friendly with many of the people so pulling off the enigmatic and reclusive author bit will be a toughie

But it would be cool if I just burst through the doors, stomped to the podium and just launched into one of my stories. It would be even more cool if some flash pots ignited as the crowd went into a frenzy. But it’s hard to whip a crowd of probably about 15 or so into any kind of a frenzy and, guaranteed, the librarians would be furious if I set off about 50-pounds of pyro in Meeting Room A.

One of my best openings ever -- and I hope to do it again one day -- was from when I taught creative non-fiction at Point Park University. The 13-week classes were each three hours long.

First, I’d be deliberately 10 minutes late. The grad students were all furious, wondering if I was either incompetent or just rude.

I’d finally storm into the room, throw my black duster trench coat in the corner and take out one page of notes.

Then I’d begin to read, if that’s what you could call it. I stared at the paper and paused for about three seconds between each introductory word. I was trying to channel the nervous tension of Don Knotts making the speech from “The Ghost and Mr. Chicken.”

“When . . . I . . . heard . . . I’d . . . be . . . required . . . to . . . speak . . . for . . . three . . . full . . . hours  . . . I . . . figured . . .  the . . . only . . . way  . . . I  . . . could  . . . fulfill . . . the . . . duty . . . is  . . . if  . . . I . . . put . . . really . . . really . . . really . . . long . . . pauses . . . between . . . each . . . of . . . the . . . words.”

By the time I got to the second “really,” they’d all gotten the joke. They knew this was going to be fun. I’d so lowered expectations at the very first impression that classes were a breeze.

Of course, I couldn’t never pull that off with Mom in the audience.

She’d start to heckle, “You’re talking too slow! Speak up! Get to the point!”

I’d have to stop the whole silly production to tell her to pipe down and just keep her pants on.

And I’ll mean it.

I’m serious about that “no nudity” pledge.

Related . . .

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My fears of public speaking

“Use All The Crayons!” a 10-star review

So what's Arnold Palmer really like?

(734 words)

The most frequently asked question of myself isn’t “How do you get by without a job?” or “Are you ever going to pay me back that twenty bucks you owe me?”

And if you’re playing at home, the answer  to the second question is directly related to the answer to the first.

No, my No. 1 FAQ is: “What’s Arnold Palmer really like?”

It’s a question everyone who lives in Latrobe, as I do, gets from people around the world.

I get it more than most because many people are aware I’ve conducted more than 50 interviews with him for various golf publications, the majority of them hour-long Q & As for his ultra-posh lifestyle magazine, “Kingdom.”

And Palmer agreed to provide the gushy cover endorsement for “Use All The Crayons!” so people have a right to expect me to have some expertise on the subject.

The question in recent months has become so common I’ve crafted two handy answers.

"What’s Arnold Palmer really like? Arnold Palmer is perfectly cool, authentic and refreshing. If he were a drink he’d be an Arnold Palmer.”

What’s he like?

“If Arnold Palmer were the only member of The Greatest Generation it would still be The Greatest Generation solely because it included Arnold Palmer.”

He’s often referred to as a legendary golfer. But describing Palmer as a legendary golfer is like describing Nelson Mandela as a successful parolee.

It doesn’t begin to do justice to the momentous legacy.

He’s an enthusiastic philanthropist bestowing countless millions on dozens of hospitals, scholarships and charitable organizations. He owns famous resort golf courses, car dealerships, golf equipment companies, golf apparel companies -- he even owns The Golf Channel. And he’s the hip drink impresario behind the international sensation that is Arnold Palmer Teas. 

The illustrious resume often leads to a secondary FAQ: People want to know how much Palmer’s worth.

One internet website that tracks celebrity wealth pegs the number at $675 million.

If that’s the case, then that makes him worth, oh, about $674,999,980 more than me.

I spend a lot of time trying to brainstorm ways to narrow the gap.

And this week I think I’ve seized on one.

I’m going to look into auctioning off a chance to accompany me the next time I interview Palmer.

I figure the bidding should start at about $5,000.

I believe many well-heeled members of Arnie’s Army would shell out big bucks to meet Palmer and observe our banter.

I’m often given a series of questions geared to topics destined to be featured in the upcoming issue of “Kingdom.” So there are questions about golf history, dinners with The Queen, planes he’s flown around the globe, and his recollections about some of the world’s most lavish resorts 

But the conversation is freewheeling enough I always slip in questions about things that have nothing to do with what’s scripted. Things like if he believes there will be golf in heaven (he does), if he owns blue jeans (yes, for days when he feels like riding a horse), and if he’ll ever appear on “Dancing With The Stars” (“No, as a dancer, I’m a pretty good golfer”).

We talk about Pirate baseball, the hazards of playing golf with your dog, and how things are at The Pond (he’s told me his daughters were raised on Pond pizza). 

At some point in each and every interview, something in my mind clicks and I think, “Wow, I’m sitting here just shooting the breeze with one of the world’s most beloved men.”

Kirk Douglas said about him in 1970 that no one he’d ever met -- not Sinatra, John Wayne or Ronald Reagan -- has more charisma than Palmer.

At the end of every interview, he stands up, shakes my hand and says something so warm it blows me away.

I’ve learned to leave my recorder running clear until I get into the car. One of these days I’m going to compile all the compliments in a tape loop. The intro will say, “This is Arnold Palmer talking about me,” followed by two minutes of Palmer saying things like, “Chris, you’re the best;” “Always great seeing you, Chris,” etc.

Yes, one of these days that will be my phone greeting.

On second thought, maybe auctioning off the Palmer interview isn’t that great of an idea.

Seeking further enrichment from such a privileged situation would be greedy.

Related . . .

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Sorry Chuck Norris, you’re no Arnold Palmer