Cuba: Whatever happened to Elian Gonzalez?

(769 words)

Many experts are wondering if US overtures toward Cuba will result in greater trade. I’m wondering if Elian Gonzalez attend the Rolling Stones show in Havana on Friday.

And, oh, yeah, did he ever become the Messiah?

I’m disappointed in how little news there’s been about the now 22-year-old Gonzalez. He was in 1999 the focus of a fierce international custody battle.

Remember?

As with so many stories from Cuba, it began with tragedy.

Gonzalez, then 6, was spirited away in the middle of the night by his mother and her boyfriend in an attempt to flee Castro’s repressive tyranny. Along with 10 liberty-seeking others, a storm swamped their rickety aluminum boat and all but Elian and two non-relative adults perished.

The survivors were rescued by fisherman Donato Dalrymple who said he saw the boy being kept afloat by a trio of kindly dolphins — and he wasn’t talking about Dan Marino and his Dolphin teammates.

It was exactly the kind of detail that fired my imagination.

I remember wanting to know if that kind of behavior was common among dolphin.

I have vague memories of the show “Flipper,” where a companionable bottlenose dolphin did episodic good deeds, fought bad guys, and acted sort of like an aquatic Lassie. 

Of course, other people used the anecdote to ascribe messianic qualities to the child.

Folk art began showing up all around Miami depicting little Elian riding to glory on the the backs of dolphins, ala Jesus on the backs of donkeys. I remember thinking, well, if he isn’t the Second Coming he’s at least a shoe-in for a marquee role at SeaWorld.

It was implied dolphins would only save someone destined for holiness. Certainly, any reasonable dolphin would beat the shit out of Fidel Castro.

The courts said the boy should be returned to his Cuban father.

But relatives in Little Havana were adamant: The boy would be raised with them.

A sexy cousin, 21-year-old Marisleysis, became a surrogate mother and family spokesperson.

Along with a cadre of protective neighbors, they combined to blockade the street and keep authorities from exercising court-ordered authority to seize Elian. They refused admission to all outsiders.

Except reporters.

Media were courted with free lemonade, bake sales and offers to use toilet facilities in exchange for flattering coverage.

It was the biggest story since the O.J. Simpson trial. 

It made news round-the-clock. I remember watching CNN when they announced the breaking news that Elian was on the move.

He wasn’t going back to Cuba.

He was going to DisneyWorld!

It all ended in the wee hours of  — appropriately enough — Good Friday 2000 when Janet Reno in the role of Pontius Pilot ordered an armed raid on the compound.

Above is the famous picture of the frightened fisherman Dalrymple turning over Elian.

Where’s a protective dolphin when you need one?

What he was doing in the home that night I don’t recall. I think he’d fallen in love with Marisleysis.

I know I did.

And then — like that — the world moved on.

Many pundits say VP Al Gore’s pandering on the issue cost him the Cuban-American vote seven months later, another factor that led to his world-changing defeat in Florida to the Bush boys.

What’s happened to these people?

Well, I did a little looking.

The street remains a shrine to Elian and his late mother, Elizabeth Bartons Rodriguez. People still stop by all the time at the free museum.

The fisherman has 111 Facebook friends and his page features a picture of him holding a lovely little girl. He looks very happy. Also featured is a stand alone picture of what I think may be a $250,000 Ferrari F3GT.

It doesn’t say if it’s his or not, but it seems out of his price range.

Maybe he caught a really big tuna.

The beguiling Marisleysis is today a married divorcee raising two children and running a Miami hair salon. Her tumbler page includes the quote: “yeah ya’ll I’m Mary Gonzalez dont even think about asking me about my family in Cuba!” 

As for Elian, one recent report says he’s studying industrial engineering, is engaged to his high school sweetheart and is hoping to one day return to the states to “show his love for the American people.”

I for one will welcome it.

It’d be great to see him enjoy the liberty only American can provide.

He could speak freely, go where he wishes and maybe even enjoy an NFL game.

Something tells me the kid’s probably a big fan of the Dolphins.

Related . . .

O.J., me & the National Enquirer

Airborne over Disney

The man Maz made a Communist

TV, movies, DWTS & identity of Pittsburgh's greatest athlete

(858 words)

“Dancing With The Stars” returns tonight and I again vow to not watch until network promos tease that Dick Cheney will be puttin’ on the Ritz.

Lots of my fellow Pittsburgh Steeler fans, however, will be watching to see star wide receiver Antonio Brown. He’s in a few short years become one of our greatest and most popular athletes, right up there with Hall of Famer Hines Ward, who won the show’s ’11 season.

• The show highlights what a great athlete you need to be to succeed as a dancer. And that’s part of the argument I’ll use to reveal the identity of the greatest athlete in Pittsburgh history. Answer at bottom.

• While I won’t be watching DWTS, we have been watching a lot of TV. There’s “The People vs. O.J. Simpson,” (very good); “Better Call Saul,” (I like the stuff when Mike’s on, but watching it makes me miss “Breaking Bad;” and “Walking Dead,” (crackling dialogue, but I wish I was refined enough to be turned off by society-degrading gruesomeness — I’m not).

• Two shows I really love are “The Grinder,” starring Rob Lowe and Fred Savage,” and “Last Man on Earth,” starring Will Forte. “Grinder” is as funny as anything I’ve seen on TV. Just uproarious. I keep thinking the premise — self-delusional Hollywood TV attorney comes home to join brother’s Boise law firm — will thin, but it never does. It’s perfectly over-the-top.

• Dick Groat isn’t the greatest athlete in Pittsburgh history. He is one of only 13 players to have his number retired by Duke University men’s basketball, was an 8-time MLB all-star and the MVP of the 1960 world champion Pittsburgh Pirates. I’m partial to Groat, too, because he owns Champion Lakes Golf Course near Ligonier, one of my favorite courses from my entire life. I have many great memories of going there with my Dad and watching the old man melt any time the great Groat would say, “It’s my old friend, Paul!” He treated my Dad like a king. That makes him a great guy, but not Pittsburgh’s greatest athlete.

• Not only have I been watching a lot of TV, I’m now on it. Sort of. My hour-long talk last week was filmed for Bethel Park TV. The talk went really well and got a lot of laughs and a wonderful ovation. But you’d barely know it from the YouTube clip you can check out right here. Because the audience wasn’t micced it seems like I’m standing on a stage blabbing aloud to myself. I swear that’s not the case. Honest. I’m looking into adding the laugh track they use for “Two Broke Girls” to really juice it up.

• Been looking for a reason to buy “The Last Baby Boomer: The Story of the Ultimate Ghoul Pool?” How about this: Send me $20 and I’ll send you a signed (and personally corrected) copy and will throw in for free a promo card that’ll entitle a tech-savvy friend for a free digital download. Be one of the first 10 to send me an e-mail at storyteller@chrisrodell.com and we’ll get the ball rolling.

• Mario Lemieux isn’t the greatest athlete in Pittsburgh history, but he’s done more for the city than any other. Besides being our best hockey player he twice saved the Penguins from moving out of town — and we love our hockey here. Plus, he beat cancer and remains one of the most inspirational stories in the city. Still, not the greatest athlete.

• My wife and 9-year-old loved “Zootopia,” and Val, Josie and I loved “The Walk,” about Frenchman Philippe Petite and his 1974 high wire walk between the newly-opened World Trade Center towers. Joseph Gordon-Levitt stars and, as always is wonderful. Also, we just again watched “Whiplash,” about a tyrannical band teacher. The starring role earned J.K. Simmons the Oscar for best actor in a supporting role. He is riveting. Also, great dialogue.

• I am not the greatest athlete in Pittsburgh history. I was captain of my high school hockey team and have achieved some things hungover that many far more accomplished athletes never could. But, no, it’s not me.

• Roberto Clemente isn’t the greatest athlete in Pittsburgh history. Neither is Tony Dorsett, Arnold Palmer, Mike Ditka, Roger Kingdom or Honus Wagner. No, the greatest athlete in Pittsburgh history was someone who didn’t even engage in professional athletics. His name is …

• Gene Kelly. I’ve for years argued Pittsburgh should erect a Gene Kelly “Singin’ in the Rain” statue at Market Square. It’s never happened because Pittsburgh has always been at heart a blue collar city that considers its sports heroes to be superior to our artistic ones.

That perception is changing with the popularity of DWTS.

And by those measures there can be no doubt that native son Kelly is the greatest. Watch him in either “Singin’ in the Rain,” or “An American in Paris.” Clearly, he could catch a long touchdown pass or track down flies in centerfield, but none of our sports heroes can do what he does.

Grinder rests.

Related . . .

Pittsburgh needs a Gene Kelly statue … Now!

Joseph Gordon-Levitt & fall movie potentials

Super Bowl victory ’09 & jump hugs with dangerous drunks

TV-holics prepare for bender (3rd Rock From the Sun)

Roberto Clemente, Mr. 3,000

My book's typo total is . . .

(758 words)

It was not without some trepidation I greeted my friend. He teaches high school English and was ready to give me my book’s typo total.

It’s probably been to my reputational detriment that I focus on typos in “The Last Baby Boomer,” over raves about its content.

This from one recent 5-star Amazon review: “What a fantastic premise! It’s a satiric, Kurt Vonnegut-ish kind of novel that had me laughing out loud. This satiric-futuristic fun read pokes fun at everything from greed to consumerism to, of course, Baby Boomers. Chris Rodell has a gift for the absurd as well as great turns of phrases. He also shows, through humor, some raw truths about us boomers.”

Such praise. All I can say is . . .

Thanks, Mom!

But we live in a nit-picky society and typos make an easy target. I’ve tried to add some perspective to the discussion by pointing out, c’mon, they’re just typos.

It’s not like I stitched up some surgical sponges next to somebody’s kidney transplant.

I shared that pithy analogy with another friend, a distinguished retired U.S. Navy captain, and he said BFD. “People who gripe about typos have no clue what a real mistake is. I know guys who’ve shot down the wrong airplane. Now, THAT’S a mistake.”

Still, we strive for for perfection so I trembled as my friend gave me his tally.

How many typos did this English teacher who read with a discerning eye toward finding them find?

“Twenty-six.”

That’s it?

“Yep, just 26. There may be more, but I read pretty carefully.”

Amid all all the praise in the widely read Brian O’Neill column about the book, (link below) there’s a four-word mention that colors some perceptions. 

The exact quote: “The first 50 pages are as funny as anything I’ve read in a long time, the middle should be shorter, there are too many typos, but the tale revs up again its final third.”

My buddy read that and said he thought it would be riven with sloppiness. 

“They’re in there, sure, but it’s not bad,” he said. “They don’t distract at all.”

Is 26 is too many? Yes, it is.

But that’s 26 out of 65,981 words, a fail rate of 0.0395 percent. That breaks down to about 1 pesky typo every 10.5 pages.

Let’s say my eagle-eyed friend vastly under-counted. Let’s round up to 100. That bumps the error percentage up to 0.0154 percent.

Can you imagine how much more smoothly everything would run if the world was as near perfect as “The Last Baby Boomer?”

I paid $1,500 to have it published. The “publisher” offers an editing/proofreading service that would have mostly sanitized the whole thing for $1,400. That’s a considerable sum to me. So I said a two-word phrase that rhymes with “bucket.”

Some have wondered why I didn’t ask friends to read it. Over the book’s 15 years, I did just that maybe three or four times.

But I didn’t want to ask anyone — even qualified friends — to do so without engaging them professionally. I know what it’s like to be asked to do something for free or eventual glory. It blows.

And I was sick of the whole discouraging process. After 15 years it was time to open the cage and set the damn thing free.

Plus, the tactic allowed me to put the page one disclaimer boasting about how it’s just me. No agent. No editor. No marketing. It warns of eventual flaws and asks readers to notify me at storyteller@chrisrodell.com of the location of typos so I can correct future versions.

The idea has also led to what is for me a very enjoyable procedure, one that’s starting to charm readers.

Because I’m correcting as I go along.

It’s true. Buy a book from me and it comes with hand-written corrections right on the page (another advantage traditional readers enjoy over e-readers).

John Grisham doesn’t do that.

I use old-fashioned copy editing symbols I learned back in college and correct each of the 10 typos I found on my own and will soon layer in all the ones my buddy’s found.

I think it shows readers it’s okay to acknowledge our imperfections.

We all make mistakes. Forgive yourself.

Make amends when you can and then move on with a gently improved version.

And any day is a very good day when you can make it home safe and sound and without having shot down the wrong airplane.

Related . . .

On being nice & the nice P-G article about me

This book is NOT free: my new book is for sale

Someone stole Buck’s book at Tin Lizzy!

About those typos . . .

My novel frustrations

Heckle me in Bethel? You won't get beat up!

(421 words)

Does all the political mayhem have you feeling an irresistible urge to go out and heckle the crap out of some poor hapless bastard?

I’m your guy!

I’ll be speaking for an hour beginning at 7:30 p.m. Wednesday at the Bethel Park Community Center, 5151 Park Rd., in the South Hills of Pittsburgh.

You can heckle all you want and you won’t get beat up. I promise.

My “Use All The Crayons!” talk is about a benevolent world where the worst thing that happens to even the most reprehensible villain is they get a good scolding.

Maybe a wedgie.

Trump says if anyone in his audience sees a protester about to heave a tomato to “beat the absolute crap out of them.”

If you’re in my audience and see anyone about to throw a tomato at me I’d appreciate it if you’d dash to the store and grab a head of lettuce, carrots, green pepper and maybe some croutons and head to the express checkout.

Yes, throw lemons at me and I’ll make lemonade.

I’m excited about tomorrow because I have no idea what to expect.

I’m told these monthly affairs are well-attended. But no one will ballpark what “well-attended” means.

It could be 15. Could be 100.

I’m hoping for the latter.

Either way, I’m bringing 30 signed copies of “crayons!” ($15), and 15 signed copies of “Last Baby Boomer” ($20).

I’m very pleased with the way my introductory talks about LBB have gone and I’m positively blown away by the book’s early reception. People are instantly engaged in the premise and entertained by the tale of how it came about.

But from what I’ve experienced in the past year, the “Crayons!” message is the one people really need to hear.

It has so much humor and what I self-righteously call bedrock wisdom. 

There seems to be a real thirst for that kind of thing, especially in these divisive times.

I’m appalled by the Trump rallies and am pleased to be offering the exact opposite of what he has.

Hear me talk Wednesday and you’ll hear tales of inclusion, perseverance, togetherness, accommodation, respect, civility and, yeah, a provocative sprinkling of playful profanity.

True, my campaign is vastly under-funded, but I’m happy to stand in opposition to all the ugliness grabbing today’s headlines.

Restore America’s greatness?

Tomorrow evening in Bethel Park, I’m going to do my small part to help restore America's goodness.

I’m doing it for goodness' sake.

Related . . .

Who’ll take on Trump & what Cher has to do with it

Omaha: “Use All the Crayons!” hits the road

Greatest American speeches and why mine’s better

Bullies, my ‘stache & insane reaction to my speech

Trump dominates August tweets. Of course he does

Make Billy Joel channel permanent. Now!

(889 words)

This is going to come as a shock to a lot of people, but I’m urging all my readers to throw their support behind a brash, thrice-married New Yorker whom the elites are trying to yank from the airwaves.

I’m talking, of course, about Billy Joel.

His exclusive Sirius XM Channel is scheduled to leave satellite radio in less than 48 hours.

America needs Billy Joel.

In just two months his channel has become one of my go-tos.

This is odd even to me because I usually mine satellite radio for obscure genres I can’t listen to at home. And I’ve had since within days of their release nearly every Billy Joel album ever produced.

I’m talking official albums, excluding greatest hits or redundant live releases (I only have one “live” Joel and it is the exquisite “Songs from the Attic” from 1981).

Compared to other artists, that ain’t much.

For a guy who’s been around such a long-time his output is embarrassingly skimpy.

Coming from me, the insult must really sting.

But Billy’s been on creative hiatus since 1993. Interestingly — and with Joel it’s always interesting — he titled his last song on his last album “Famous Last Words.”

Comparing him with other exclusive channel artists, his career output is a commercial jingle.

Springsteen studio releases — and I’m talking the ones I own — number 350. But his outtakes, B-sides and live versions probably push the number up to around 1,000. Plus, The E Street Radio channel has two live concerts each day, many of which are worth the price of my satellite radio subscription itself.

They gave Tom Petty his own channel last fall and it’s a winner. Close to Springsteen in output, he’s at 357 songs. I’m including Mudcrutch, Traveling Wilbury’s and some stuff he’s done with Bob Dylan.

The Jimmy Buffet channel doesn’t count because it’s augmented with many other artists because, I guess, even Jimmy gets sick of too much Jimmy.

Then there’s Elvis.

Ah, Elvis.

He’s released roughly 770 songs (Dylan, who’s been recording for three decades longer has yet to reach by my count 500 total songs).

You can argue some artists do or do not deserve their own channels.

I’ll argue Elvis ought to have three channels.

That brings us back to Billy. His song total?

A measly 115.

This is bound to sound pretentious, but I’m confident that if sufficiently motivated I could learn to play the piano and write 115 songs before July the Fourth.

So I wasn’t optimistic when I heard they were devoting a channel to Billy. I figured it would fatigue quickly.

Then I turned it on.

Now, I’m having trouble turning it off.

It’s that good.

His songs never miss. You could listen to them over and over.

Then the station got better.

Slowly, gradually, they began to introduce more Billy.

Understand, unlike other top artists it’s pretty much just him.

Springsteen devotees can name every member of the E Street Band and they’re contributions are detailed on their channels. Hell, bass player Garry Tallent’s solo album is now in heavy rotation.

Few can name a single other musician with whom Billy’s shared the stage. He’s always backed by great musicians, but they change and remain unheralded.

So it’s just Billy.

But that’s what’s making the Bill Joel channel such a treat. Because at some point they began playing snippets of Billy talking about the songs and playing them as intros.

These are not interviews. Apparently, he’s in a room with a piano and someone mentions a song title, which you don’t hear.

All you hear is Billy being Billy.

Sometimes he’ll talk. Sometimes he’ll sing. Sometimes he’ll play the piano. Sometimes he won’t.

His articulation, at once both self-deprecating and braggadocios, is breathtaking.

He says “Goodnight Saigon” was inspired by The Beatles “A Day in the Life.”

He wrote “Big Shot” with a raging hangover.

It pisses him off when people suggest “Always a Woman” is misogynistic.

He wrote the lyrics to “Honesty” in a hurry because as the song was being written his drummer kept singing “Sodomy” instead and he was afraid that would get stuck in his head.

The evocatively enigmatic “And So It Goes” was written when he was in his 30s and in love with 19-year-old Australian supermodel Elle MacPherson.

“Uptown Girl” was written with both MacPherson and eventual wife Christie Brinkley in mind. It was sung with Frankie Valley and “Rag Doll” in mind and that’s why he uses the falsetto because “he wanted to sound like somebody really had me by the short hairs, you know, just like Frankie.”

He’ll never write a Christmas album because “it is the last refuge of the creatively bankrupt.”

It’s uproarious, poignant and without fail compelling. It’s the kind of radio that has me sitting still in the car long after I’ve arrived at my destination.

What I enjoy most is listening to one of the world’s most successful artists talk with unabashed exuberance about his elemental love for the sibling crafts of songwriting and musicianship.

Forever linked to some of the world’s most beautiful women, the Piano Man at heart will always be a piano man.

America doesn’t need to made great again.

We’ll all be fine if Sirius XM just makes the Billy Joel channel permanent.

An @8days2Amish Billy Joel-related tweet: “Conservatives furious when they discover a little known Obamacare regulation that requires docs pronounce the condition, “Heart attack-ack-ack-ack!”

Related . . .

Jersey Shore is back! Is Billy Joel, too?

What ruined Billy Joel

Elton vs. Billy Joel & writing too much

Petty wants me to buy vinyl & who’s better: him or Springsteen?

Listening to classic rock with my senile mom

Teaching 9th graders who’s better: Stones or Beatles?

Back when drinking ouzo always made my pants disappear

(705 words)

I experienced a momentary bewilderment when I read Poros, a fancy new Pittsburgh seafood restaurant, was featuring a dish described as “Salmon Cured with Ouzo.”

I used to drink an awful lot of ouzo, the powerful Greek liquor, back when I lived in Athens and the only thing I remember it curing me of was the need to wear pants.

Understand, this wasn’t Athens, Greece; it was Athens, Ohio, where I spent four years in a work/study program.

I did all my work and all my study in a bar.

I don’t recall what drew us to try ouzo, but we were probably trying to get as unstable as efficiently possible.

Ouzo allowed us to do this without repeatedly slamming bar stools on one another’s heads.

And as we young scholars noted, “You can’t spell ouzo without O.U.!” (Note: OU comes in handy if you’re trying to spell bourbon, too!)

A couple of us even looked into transferring to the university’s Zanesville, Ohio, branch so we could cheer for the football team by chanting “O.U.Z.O! O.U.Z.O!”

Binge drinking is a serious problem for many people. I can’t say it ever was for me. We all had a lot of fun.

Many people drink liquor to make their inhibitions disappear.

I don’t know how one always seemed to lead to the other, but whenever I drank ouzo the only thing that disappeared were my pants.

I was back then a notorious streaker, an admission which proves my aversion to logical thinking predates by 30 years my idea of blogging to make money.

Streaking never helped me meet girls, which was the whole point of attending Ohio University. Its magic wasn't confined to my wardrobe. I remember offering ouzo to grown women and watching them disappear!

And it certainly didn’t lead to a groundswell of campus admiration.

But ouzo was to me like stressful situations were to David Banner, only with him it caused him to lose his temper and transform into The Incredible Hulk.

I’d never lose my temper; I'd just lose my pants.

And, boy, I was fast back then, at least when I was buck naked and had campus security on my ass ... literally.

I’m sure I could have set enduring track records, but the coach told me I had to wear a uniform to compete and, no, just socks didn’t count.

Some people hate the black-licorice taste of ouzo. Even some of my friends dry heave at the recollection.

Not me. I always liked it.

So revulsion to taste wasn’t the reason I ignored it for 30 years. Like my pants once did, ouzo just seemed to disappear.

Now it’s coming back. I’m starting to see ouzo references all over.

About a month ago I read a passage in a Churchill history about a ’44 visit to Greece where his private secretary, John Colville, mistook a bottle of ouzo for gulping water. In his diary he later noted, “I have never felt closer to death.”

And he’d fought in the WWI trenches!

Then last week I overheard Buck, the Tin Lizzy owner, tell a bartender a bottle she couldn’t find was “up on the top shelf right by the ouzo.”

So I told Buck my story. I told about the intoxication, the punishing hangovers and all those nekkid sprints across the college green.

I don’t know what part of the story intrigued him most, but he said something to the bartender and — oompa! — there before me was the first shot of ouzo I’d seen since 1986.

Dare I?

I wondered about the possible consequences to my reputation. What if my pants vanished? Would I become the town laughingstock?

Then it dawned on me how town laughingstock is such a gentle drop from town blogger so . . .

Down the hatch!

I felt the once-familiar burn in my belly. My head began to feel like it was filled with Greek helium.

But I remained fully clothed!

I felt like I’d vanquished a dragon.

I didn’t go streaking. I didn’t feel like binge drinking the week away.

I was at peace with one of the world’s most volatile spirits.

Funny, isn’t it?

A weekend where so many others will be celebrating the wearin’ o’ the green and I’m giddy over a mere wearin’ o’ the pants.

Related …

Ohio U. No. 1 party school … again!

My career advice: Don’t be like me!

My history of drinking at/near work

Matt Lauer’s got the blues

My wild & wussy weekend in Athens