Sunday re-run: The last lawless office party . . . canceled!

My plans to have another office Christmas party were again dashed by the seasonal chaos. That makes re-running this 2010 post about my canceled office party perfect. For some reason, this is a perennial favorite and the 9th most popular post I’ve ever written.

Cancel your plane reservations. Unpack your suitcase. Tell the dog sitter never mind.

The world’s last, best office Christmas party is being canceled.

Why? It was a victim of its own success.

So who’s the Scrooge?

That would be me.

Those of you who were checking in last year have probably had Dec. 23 circled in red on your calendars for nearly a year. That’s the day I told readers from around the world they’d be welcome to jet into Latrobe to enjoy an old-fashioned Christmas office party with me in my shabby little one-man office above the town’s best bar.

In this recap of last year’s soiree, I admit to having been nervous about holding an office party.

After all, a traditional office party is supposed to involve just the people from the office. It’s an opportunity to unwind in an unrestrained environment where booze-loosened inhibitions are free to ramble.

This neatly describes every single day of my life, so I thought my gift would be to share it with the world.

And that’s just what I did. I printed up an invitation to friends and all honest strangers to come, smoke, swear, get loaded and enjoy my new haircut.

The ground rules were clear: there would be no rules.

The world is just so rife with rules -- even lousy party rules. You can’t smoke, drink too much or wantonly flirt without fear of getting slapped with a sexual harassment suit.

I was offering the last lawless Christmas party.

Here’s what I hoped would happen: I hoped everyone who entered would have one shot of high-test liquor and immediately start removing their clothes. Then, emboldened, they’d ask me to pour them another shot.

Nudity and drunkenness are still essential elements to any good time for me -- and I was eager to share those values with all my close friends.

Here’s what happened: Everyone came in and removed one item of clothing -- their winter coats (it was about 4 degrees that night). Then everyone began making polite small talk. Everyone seemed to be having a really nice time.

It was a crushing development.

I could have suggested we all hold hands and say a prayer for the less fortunate and it would have gone over well.

I know this is a contrary opinion, but I believe Christmas is the one time of year that could use a whole lot less peace on earth and goodwill toward men.

It just doesn’t rock like it used to.

As someone who’s only had three steady jobs his entire adult life (two newspapers/one Pizza Hut), I feel like I’ve missed out on so much.

I see people going to office parties and think, damn, they must be having so much fun. I miss the camaraderie, the shared mission and the reckless opportunity to cut loose on the boss’s tab.

Maybe I’m just conjuring visits from the Ghost of Christmases That Never Were.

Maybe the Christmas parties where wives were swapped, stupid bosses were told off and everyone spent the rest of the year pretending nothing happened are as illusory as Marley’s old ghost.

If that’s so, then it’s a shame.

We spend more time with our co-workers than we do with our spouses. People who endure the cauldron of trying to stay employed in a business that’s fighting just to stay above water ought to be entitled to cut loose at least once a year.

It’s only human.

Last year’s party ended with the refrigerator still full of beer, the ashtrays mostly empty and everyone’s underwear all in place and accounted for.

Only one noble soldier stayed too late, got too drunk and joined me in making complete asses of ourselves later on downstairs in the bar.

Of course, that was Paul, and we’ve been doing that about three nights a week since 1989 so it wasn’t really Christmas special.

Maybe next year I’ll try again. Maybe people will be more in the mood to celebrate the true meaning of an old-fashioned Christmas party -- getting drunk and having fun!

But I can’t do it myself.

I’m only human.

The Christmas when romance (and me) were Frosty

(1,213 words)

You’d think with a resume as skimpy as mine I’d seize on any past occupation to bolster my flagging prospects.

But I’ve never written about one full-time job I held in 1983 around this time of year.

My mother, who forgets what year it is, reminded me of it the other day when she asked me to tell her some stories about the time I was Santa. She was close, but I wasn’t Santa.

I was Frosty the Snowman.

Ohio University, where I was educated to be the underemployed blogger I was destined to become, used to operate on the old trimester system. That meant we had from before Thanksgiving until the week after New Year’s off before the resumption of winter classes.

And here many of you thought the only reason I attended there was because at the time the Ohio drinking age was just 18.

The glorious six-week break gave some of us opportunities for seasonal income.

We were neighbors with a friendly woman who did the hiring at the old Kaufman’s Department store in Century III Mall. She said she had a job for which I’d be perfect.

So I went and got my hair cut, put on a sports coat, a snazzy tie and went for the interview. They took one look at me in my Sunday finest and said, “Yep, he’ll do.”

Then they handed me the 20-pound costume that would conceal every inch of my appearance.

I was to be the department store Frosty, assigned to wander the store and hand out cheer and candy canes. For that I’d be paid about $4 an hour and all the candy canes I could eat.

Even though no one would know who I was, I felt an instinctual embarrassment when I looked in the mirror and saw round-headed Frosty grinning back. It was so childish, so silly.

I’d become a cartoon.

I was struck by the paradox that even though I was dressed as a 6-foot snowman, I didn’t feel very cool at all -- in more ways than one.

The outfit was incredibly hot. I was fearful an hour spent dressed as Frosty would puddle up my snowballs.

But I had about six weeks to kill before I headed back to Athens. What else was I going to do?

I started walking the aisles and approaching the customers -- and I’m talking here about the 90 percent majority women. I had no interest in the few men, they none in me.

I soon found about one third of these women were what I guess you’d call coldly indifferent to snowman. They’d ignore me and I’d ignore them back.

Another third would smile politely. For them I’d wave.

But another third could barely contain themselves. They were so seasonally juiced, they seemed out-of-their minds to see Frosty the Snowman strolling through cookware.

I soon learned the best way to deal with these people was to just run up and hug the absolute crap out of them.

Because it made them very happy. Understand, they were happy people to begin with, but to give them an effervescent outlet for their innate joy just made their day.

So once I’d see someone who was delighted to see me, I’d dash down the aisle and just throw my arms around them and often pick them up, an impulsive action that could have been disastrous in terms of potential injury and sexual harassment lawsuits.

Some of the kiddies were frightened. So I’d try and hand them a candy cane. If they were nervous about accepting, I’d raise the candy up to my little mouth slot and with my mittened hand slam it home, wrapper and all. During breaks, I’d lift off the big bowl and four or five candy canes would spill out.

I used to like spending time in ladies lingerie. It cracked up the shoppers to see Frosty the Snowman standing in front of a mirror considering how he’d look wearing a frilly pink teddy he was holding out in front of himself.

My mother, of course, loved it. That’s why I was happy the only picture I have of me in the suit includes her and one of my favorite teachers, Mrs. Picci, the middle school choral teacher I used to torture with my disruptive class shenanigans. She for reasons I cannot recall was in a wheel chair. I love that picture.

And, of course, there was a romantic element to the whole endeavor.

I soon became chummy with many of the employees including a very pretty blonde woman working the make-up counter. She used to sneak up and squirt me with perfume when my head was turned -- and inside that big helmet, my head was turning all the time.

She was about 30, me 19. 

We’d clown around and laugh during my near hourly passes through her department. Sometimes I’d stop and talk to her.

I told her I wanted to be a writer. She told me she wanted to get a divorce.

I wish someone would have preserved the films from the security cameras monitoring our conversations. I’m sure it would be hilarious, her talking earnestly about her crumbling marriage to a stranger snowman. Me, nodding, my giant top-hatted head in empathy.

It was right around this time, just a few days before Christmas, when I finally strolled up to her counter in street clothes late one night after my shift had ended.

She had no idea who I was. I asked some stupid questions about perfume just to try her patience.

When I had her at peak exasperation, I laughed and told her I was Chris the Snowman.

If I ever got as warm a reaction from an introduction with a woman, I don’t recall it.

I was the snowman, but she was the one who melted.

I’m not going to say she thought I was handsome, but I know she at least thought I was not repulsive. And she liked me a lot when I was in the costume so the bar was low.

I remember her holding my hand with one of hers and gently stroking it with the other.

I knew right then I could have taken her out in the parking lot and spent hours doing what Austin Powers calls “shagging.”

But I’d be gone in a few days, she was in a difficult time and I sensed from what she’d told me about her rat bag husband that getting involved might have led to one or the other of us getting shot.

Strange, at Christmas, I was dressed like Frosty, but I was behaving like one of the Three Wise Men.

Of course, in hindsight I once again look back at my youth and rage that my parents raised such a thoughtful gentleman.

Gunshots or not, I’d love to have a memory of fooling around with her in the chilly parking garage.

But despite what she may have thought, it might have caused more harm than good.

She needed more than physical satisfaction. She needed caring, she needed understanding.

She needed a warmth I could never provide.

Any guy so adept at playing Frosty would have been all wrong for a girl like that.

Related . . .

Thoughts on circular pizza & horny Hut waitresses

The summer I ran away with the carnival

Bring on the bacteria! Our cleanliness is killing us

(695 words)

I’m surprised none of the hand soap people have never used a Pontius Pilot impersonator to sell their soaps.

“When I need to wash my hands of a really dirty job, I always use Dial!”

I’m on the verge of washing my hands of any more health-related stories involving the washing of hands. It’s becoming too confusing.

It seems for the last 40 years we’ve been bathing our hands in the cancer causing polychloro phenoxy phenol agent called triclosan. And if even one of you knows just what the hell that means then my readership demographics need a dramatic reassessment.

See, for more than 40 years, they’ve been telling us bacteria were bad and needed chemical destruction.

The drumbeat of news spawned multitudes of germophobe OCD types into a sanitizer squirting frenzy and today they are everywhere.

You see them wiping down shopping cart handles, bathroom sink faucets and lathering their pre-meal hands with so much Purell I’m surprised they still have any meat left on their mitts.

Famous germophobes include Howie Mandel, Donald Trump, Jessica Alba, Ben Stiller, Gwyneth Paltrow and Jerry Seinfeld. Throw in Dennis Rodman, Mylie Cyrus and Snooki and you have all the ingredients for a dandy reality show.

You could film it in Germany!

Hire a host named Hans!

It’s taken nearly 100 years, but we’re all learning bacteria are like people. Some are good, some are bad. Some lead productive lives that benefit mankind, some are our mortal scourges and maybe some, like me, spend their lives just blogging their microscopic little asses off.

But by using so much triclosan, we’re indiscriminately killing off good bacteria and allowing bad bacteria to strengthen into what healthcare experts are calling antibiotic resistant super bugs that imperil our very existence.

You’d think it’d be a cinch to add a dose of “healthy” bacteria; doctors could prescribe patients lick the nearest door knob.

News stories tell us we’re besieged by nasty bacteria. They’re on dish rags, elevator buttons, light switches, cell phones and in what is a cruel irony, paper towel dispenser levers you push to dry your hands after you’ve properly washed your hands in every public restroom.

That is if you do, indeed, wash your hands.

A recent Michigan State University study found that 15 percent of men and 7 percent of women don’t wash their hands after using the bathroom.

That’s appalling.

I had a discussion with Dave, The Pond owner, about these types of cretins.

It’s a significant issue because the door to the men’s room is near the entryway. So it’s not uncommon to walk out of the bathroom and either be greeted by an incoming friend or be struck by the need to shake the hand of one on the way out.

I probably shake 20 hands a night on some Fridays there.

I told Dave I always leave my hands a little damp after departing the Pond men’s room, dry hands being an obvious indicator that no washing occurred.

Dave told me a trick he learned from his old man.

“He told me to exit the bathroom so everyone would see me drying my hands with a paper towel. It sends a good signal so everyone knows that the owner who’ll be handling food and drink is considerate about proper hand washing.”

But what are we going to do if all the germ-resistant pigs who do not wash their hands thrive, while the rest of us one-by-one die off just for doing what any good mommy told us to do?

It’s a quandary. On the one hand, we can’t be too clean. We need to taint ourselves with enough grimy earthiness to fire up the bacterial soldiers that keep us healthy.

On the other hand, we can’t be too dirty because it’s disgusting to refined bar gents like myself.

I think what I might do is begin washing my right hand to keep it clean for shaking  purposes and letting the other go pure commando.

Anyone think that’s a good idea?

I’d ask for a show of hands, but I’m afraid what I might see from about 15 percent of you.

Related . . .

My hands are beautiful to behold!

I am becoming left-handed

How real men like me (and Michael Keaton) shake hands

Pro football's a bore; here are 5 ways to save it

(1,106 words)

As the game clock ticked down to zero it was near midnight Sunday at frigid Heinz Field and about 46,000 fans began to feel satisfaction over a big Steeler win.

About 40 miles east and in a place that was about 60 degrees warmer I began feeling a different emotion.

Smug superiority.

As the Steelers were congratulating one another, I was congratulating myself for having the wisdom to have turned down multiple opportunities to attend the game.

In fact, as I switched off the TV and began plumping my pillow a surprising thought popped into my cranium: I’ll never attend another night professional football game for the rest of my life.

If true, that can only mean one thing:

The NFL has jumped the shark.

You can take it from me or any of the other 20,000 no shows who opted to eat their $86 tickets rather than attend. And if it’s happening with a fan base as dedicated as the one here in Pittsburgh, it’s happening everywhere.

Sunday’s game was the most poorly-attended in the 12-year history of Heinz Field. Many of the no shows were men and women like me. We believe watching the games about eight steps from our very own toilets is preferable to the vastly over-rated NFL experience.

But as I think it’s important to preserve something that’s been essential to American traditions, I’m offering these five suggestions as to how to save the game.

• Players get just one piece of protective equipment

It infuriates me when European rugby and soccer fans justifiably criticize or NFL behemoths for being over-protected. Why, they ask, should such big, tough men need so much body armor? Well, they’re right on the money.

Why, indeed.

In my NFL, players will only be allowed to choose to wear just one-piece of equipment. If they want a helmet, fine. Shoulder pads? Have at it. But you only get one or the other.

Injuries are ruining the game. Reducing equipment will make all but the true lunatic players more careful.

Plus, it’ll add a new element to bookmaking as fans get to place sporting wagers on on the over-under on how many players opt to wear goody protectors.

• Reduce 53-man rosters to 11

Specialization is ruining the game. Why does a team of alleged athletes need two men to kick the same ball? 

Two-way players used to be the norm. It should today be the rule. Who among us wouldn’t like to see Tom Brady line up in the defensive back position? Or Ben Roethlisberger at linebacker? Or have Ndamukong Suh in the red zone backfield?

Injured players would be replaced by coaches, trainers or fit-looking beer vendors eager for a big-time break.

Eleven-man rosters would put a premium on athletic abilities. Plus, the reduction of players would lead to the reduction of salaries and an overdue reduction of ticket prices. Empty seats would be a thing of the past. 

• Two officials/player honor systems

Over-officiating is killing the game. Seven on-field officials is the problem. There should be just two: one for the offensive side, one for the defense. That’s plenty to detect glaring infractions. Once that’s accomplished, players would need to be taught to self-police and adhere to the rules by the honor system -- like professional golfers!

So, say, if a player in an impulsive moment sticks out a leg and trips a rushing lineman, he immediately raises his hand and says, “My bad!” and play is stopped and the penalty assessed.

This would set a great example for America’s youth.

• Running clocks/20 timeouts

The great secret of the NFL is it’s really boring. That’s because in its arrogance, the NFL believes it can control time. So every 60-minute game takes about 3 hours and 20 minutes. And of that, only about 14 minutes involves the actual playing of football. The rest is a bunch of men standing around scratching themselves.

Or as George Will put it: “Football combines two of the worst things about America: it is violence punctuated by committee meetings.”

So watching the average game at home on your big screen is okay if you happen to be one of those people who really happens to enjoy hours and hours of beer, truck, and erectile dysfunction ads. But with all the TV timeouts and injury delays, the game is becoming impossibly tedious to view in person -- especially if you’re exposed to bitter elements.

Games should never last more than two hours. To accomplish this, the clock needs to run throughout play. This would bestow a frantic and compelling sense of urgency to every single second. Overrated coaches would become less necessary as players would have to rely on their own wits.

Timeouts would be increased from three per half to 15 -- and leftover timeouts could carry over to upcoming games, providing a tremendous advantage to teams adept at using the clock.

• Halftime Team Talent Shows!

Each team would have to perform a five-minute skit, musical number or vaudeville (knife juggling, plate spinning, poodle training, etc.). Celebrity judges could be Simon Cowell, Mylie Cyrus and Dick Cheney. Depending on each team’s performance, judges could either add or deduct up to three points from each team’s total score.

Halftime talent shows would influence teams to draft more interesting, well-rounded players who excel at worthy off-field artistic endeavors.

This is another way of getting to know the players better and having them be better role models. Cowboy receiver Dez Bryant could shed his reputation for surliness if at halftime he came out and gave a poignant rendition of “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” with Tony Romo accompanying him on ukelele.

• Armless linemen

Promoting this has been a pet project of mine for three years. See, holding is the one penalty it is said referees could call on every play. But eliminating such an instinctual maneuver is impossible. Better to eliminate the offending limbs.

Our recent wars have left us with scores of tough, armless vets for whom patriotic fans would love to cheer. Armless lineman would make endemic holding a thing of the past.

So there you have it, five thoughtful solutions to chronic NFL problems.

I ask that you share them with friends, craft your own and join me in my mission to help save a game that is dying before our very eyes.

It’s a mission I intend to get back to as soon as I figure out a way an armless NFL lineman will ever be able to bend over and snap a football.

Related . . .

Seeing red over NFL pink

NFL sacks itself

NFL not rich enough: needs throw-forward jerseys

Dick Cheney should replace Simon on “Idol”

Am I ready for some football? Nope

Black men can’t kick

Love is in the air! McCutchen, Maria & Me

(726 words)

One of the things I like about the game of baseball is that it’s forever teaching me lessons about character.

Being a fan of the Pittsburgh Pirates has taught me things like patience, optimism and value.

Patience because the team went 21 years between winning seasons, optimism because I knew one day even that streak of haplessness had to end, and value because over the years I’ve come to understand how little of it there is in an $8.25 glass of warm ballpark beer.

Well, it’s probably valuable to owner Bob Nutting.

And last week America’s greatest pastime surprised me with a revelation that caught me off guard.

Baseball taught me I’m one of western Pennsylvania’s greatest romantics.

MVP all-star centerfielder Andrew McCutchen proposed to girlfriend Maria Hanslovan on the Ellen DeGeneres show and many of my baseball friends thought it was deplorably cheesy.

Me, I thought it was nifty. Sweet. Heart-warming. Adorable. Enchanting. Delightful.

Shucks, it was cuter than puppies on pillows.

It’s clear McCutchen is head over heels in love with the winsome Maria.

And why not? She’s beautiful. She has a playful smile. Her @MariaHaslovan account includes a tweet advising that “Farting helps reduce high blood pressure and is good for your health!”

A pretty gal who appreciates the gastrointestinal benefits of a good, long stinker?

Toot! Toot!

She’s from DuBois, too. My late (and beloved) grandfather ran the high school cafeteria there. Go Beavers! And that’s the school’s actual nickname and not me just being dirty, so consider it a two-fer.

And I am tickled there are fairytale elements to the romance. The pair met at the ballpark when she was part of the Cannonball Crew, the team of fetching young lovelies that fire up the crowd by shooting Bucco t-shirts and hot dogs at the fans between innings.

So there’s a chance before she began dating McCutchen she’d fired one of her weenies right at my heart.

Alas, it was not meant to be.

I don’t care.

She loves McCutchen.

So do I!

In fact, I might love him more than she does.

She’s 25 so she’s probably only cared about boys for 10 years. She probably dreamed of a guy who’s handsome, caring, gentle, funny and a good provider. A beauty as fair and fart-loving as Hanslovan could find hundreds of eligible men.

Me, I’ve been waiting for a guy like McCutchen since 1992.

I’d sit there night after night alone in my basement and in mind scrapbook my dream Buc.

He’d hit for power with runners in scoring position, he could bang off speed junk to the opposite field, he’d be fleet footed enough to cover wide swaths of PNC outfield and he’d have a cannon for an arm.

McCutchen’s all that and more.

See, I’m like Maria in that I want my dream Buc to be funny and caring, too.

We’ve had great baseball players here before, but it robs fans like me of some of the joy of rooting for them when they’re surly jerks.

And that description fit Barry Bonds to a T. 

The Bucs won a lot of games with Bonds -- not many meaningful October ones -- but a lot of games against teams like the old Expos in months like April.

McCutchen is an absolute joy to watch. He plays with an infectious enthusiasm that fires up the whole ballpark. He’s always clowning and cutting up in the dugout and I understand he’s a devastating mimic.

He makes playing professional baseball seem like the pure joy little boys figure it’s bound to be.

The greatest quote I’ve ever heard about him was from his manager, Clint Hurdle, who said, “He’s one of two guys I’ve coached in my life that I wanted to both date my daughter and bat third.”

Oh, Clint, I love you, too.

So let’s celebrate this great, fresh love.

We’re talking about two people who were meant to be together, who will now eagerly engage a future that holds so much special promise.

It’s a match made in heaven.

I’m talking, of course, about me and Andrew.

If she’s marrying McCutchen, she’s going to have to understand guys like me are all part of the package.

I’m sure she’ll be fine with that.

Any girl who admires a really good, healthy fart is gonna love me.

Related . . .

Centerfield

A great day for baseball! Let’s play 2! Or 3!

Roberto Clemente, Mr. 3,000

The Bucs need Barry Bonds

Time for Bucs to bury the great Vince Lasheid

A babbling tower of sign language

(673 words)

I'd like to see a picture of a deaf delegation at the Mandela funeral all simultaneously scratching their heads, which I guess is sign language for, “WTF?”

The episode makes me wish I was young and feckless enough to go to loud dance clubs where I predict some version of Thamsanqa Jantjie’s fluid yet robotic moves will sweep the nation.

To me, it’s the greatest impostor performance since Lt. Frank Drebin of “Police Squad!” pretended to be both a Major League Baseball umpire and opera tenor Enrico Palazzo during the Los Angeles Dodgers game where Reggie Jackson tried to assassinate Queen Elizabeth.

So an addled man with a history of violence spends an hour on stage 36 inches from the leader of the free world and infuriates the global deaf community by signing incomprehensible gibberish.

And they call that news.

And, yes, that’s an even more obscure “Naked Gun” reference. There’s just something about the whole kerfuffle that reminds me of classic screwball comedy.

As a adult who’s for more than 20 years has pretended to be a wage-earning journalist, I find much to admire about Jantjie’s performance. When I first learned of the alleged deception, I wondered if he did it on a dare.

Or maybe the real interpreter got bumped unconscious and one of the funeral organizers -- and let’s not forget this was at a funeral (a funeral!) -- ran in and said, “Quick, we need someone who knows sign language! Can anyone help us?”

Maybe Jantjie slugged down a shot of courage, stood up and said, “I’m your guy!” To emphasize his point, he maybe made Hercules arms and pounded on his chest the way I do when I want to signal competence.

To those of us who are ignorant of sign language, he looked perfectly expert.

Of course, what the hell do I know? To me all sign language looks similar to what I see Pittsburgh Pirate third base coach Nick Leyva doing moments before Andrew McCutcheon tries to steal second.

In fact, modern sign language is an art that’s been around for more than 400 years and involves nearly as many dialects as spoken communication. Effective signers augment their motions with expressive facial and spoken recitations to assist interpretation, a telltale oversight by the impostor.

For all his wild gesticulating, he appeared as facially stoic as a man waiting for a bus.

Of course, Jantjie is sticking to his guns. He’s maintaining he is a bona fide sign interpreter.

That’s just one of the things he’s said. He’s also said he’s schizophrenic, that his medications were off, and that encouraging angels directed him to sign divine.

For a man who’s now world famous for standing still, he’s doing an awful lot of nimble spinning.

I’m hoping to hear him say he was protecting Obama from a swarm of invisible bees.

In any case, all his excuses are falling on, well, deaf ears, and that makes it maybe the first time in history that phrase wasn’t excessively metaphorical.

We’ll probably never know the answers to how this all happened and what motivated Jantjie, but there’s Biblical precedent to the chicanery.

The Book of Genesis describes how descendants of Noah built the tower of Babel in the hopes it would reach heaven and they could better communicate with God, which supposes a certain Almighty deafness to people who pray on their knees.

The scriptures say God prevented them from completing the tower by confusing their languages so they could no longer understand each other, thus forever dooming mankind to an inability to sensibly communicate.

Is it just me or does anyone else thinks that’s the kind of stunt you’d expect from Satan, not God?

Anyhoo, the Bible also tells us man is made in God’s image, which logically means He has hands with one thumb and four fingers, one of them being middle one.

Something tells me modern sign language is a lot older than 400 years.

It’s maybe the one sign even that now-famous funeral fraud knows.

Related  . . .

Fraudulent address labels working out for Rev. Rodell

My Biblical confusions

Ark building floats man’s boat