Eight Days to Amish

Whitney, Petty, weed & Willie

2012-02-13T11:30:00.003-05:00

Two of my favorite artists of the 1980s are famous for being prodigious dope smokers. One of them died Saturday and the other is Tom Petty.

I didn’t realize how much I liked Whitney Houston until her death. I’m surprised how sad the news made me.

Because for about five years from 1986-91, she was flawless.

Her voice was breathtaking. She was beautiful. Today’s divas make surly seem like a job description. It wasn’t that way with Whitney. Carbonated beverages weren’t as bubbly.

I never bought any of her albums or saw any of her movies, but I remember feeling a little jolt of euphoria every time I heard her sing and back then her songs were everywhere.

I guess I sort of stopped caring when she married Bobby Brown and started making tabloid headlines for getting high. I thought, well, she’s finished.

It seemed a sort of blasphemy to expose a voice like that to something like smoke.

I was right. It just got more and more sordid and pathetic ending Saturday in a bathtub at the Beverly Hills Hilton -- and if I was a celebrity who was fond of drugs I’d never set foot in a bathtub.

What is about drugs that cause some artists to wither and others to thrive?

Take Petty. When it comes to marijuana use and promotion, he’s right up there -- and I mean up there -- with Willie Nelson and Snoop Dogg.

There’s his great 1994 stoner anthem, “You Don’t Know How it Feels.” Chorus: “Well, let me get to the point, let’s roll another joint!”

Even more emphatic is the obscure, “You Get Me High.” It starts out, “Let’s have another joint on me! Let’s get as gone as we can be! And we’ll float around the ceiling! Baby, you get me high!”

It’s a love song sung to a girl, but I’m confused about the real object of his lyrical affections.

There’s a segment in his outstanding “Running Down a Dream” career retrospective where he talks about how drugs ravaged the production of the 1985 album, “Southern Accents.”

Petty’s talking with evident sadness and consternation of the wreckage of drug use and saying how terrible and destructive to creativity they are. He then gets a mischievous glint in his eye and before dissolving into maniacal laughter asks the unseen interviewer, “You don’t happen to have any drugs, do you?”

The program later shows Petty mourning the death of heroin-addict bandmate Howie Epstein, 47.

I remember Mick Jagger saying something similar to “60 Minutes” correspondent Ed Bradley in 2002. Jagger said one day he woke up and realized he was sick and tired of always being wasted. Bradley asks when he came to that realization and Jagger, laughing just like Petty did, says, “After about 30 years!”

I often quote Willie Nelson when he’s asked about the effect on the crime rate if marijuana was legalized: “I know it’s kept me from killing a bunch of people.”

It’s an interesting time for me to be opining on the drug use of others because my wife and I are hooked on crystal meth.

We’re binging on “Breaking Bad,” the AMC show about the chemistry teacher (Bryan Cranston) who turns to crystal meth production after a terminal cancer diagnosis. We’re into the third season and I know when we catch up and have to go cold turkey we’ll suffer withdrawal until it airs again.

It’s the best show we’ve ever seen and it’s left me scared straight. It’s all over the headlines, too. Drugs are destroying lives.

Not everyone who smokes weed makes the narcotic jump to heroin or crystal meth, but the cops will tell you no one starts the latter without trying the former.

Conclusions:

• Drugs are very bad for some people. Whitney Houston said heavy marijuana use ruined her life.

• Some very cool people really love weed and other drugs.

• Writing about drugs is a lot more fun when you don’t have to think about dead celebrities and wasted lives.

I suppose the same goes for doing them.

Re-run Sunday: All snowmen are abominable

2012-02-12T15:24:00.004-05:00

I've only had to shovel twice this year. There were days in February 2010 when I shoveled twice before noon. The month set all kinds of snow records and still scars my mind. Yet I survived it. Today, in homage to that fierce foe, I rerun this piece written in the teeth of the worst winter I can remember.

Oh, the weather outside is frightful and I can’t keep the Christmas ditties from sleigh riding ‘round and ‘round inside my head.

At Christmas we all sang “Let it Snow! Let it Snow! Let it Snow!” How come “Make it Stop! Make it Stop! Make it Stop!” doesn’t work half as well?

We’ve already had our White Christmas, our White New Year’s, and our White Groundhog’s Day.

For heaven’s sake, we even had a White Martin Luther King Jr. Day. And how did Al Sharpton miss the chance to protest that racial switcherroo?

I’ve heard the Eskimos have 25 different words to describe snow. I have at least that many and all of mine start with a word that sounds like “firetruck.”

The man who said no two snowflakes look exactly alike never shoveled my driveway. Let me tell you, every single firetruckin’ snowflake looks exactly alike.

I’ve spent two to three hours each day for the past two weeks walking in a winter wonderland. We’re about to set a record for total snowfall in February and we still have 12 days left in the shortest month.

I asked a fellow sufferer how we’re supposed to celebrate breaking such a record. He looked at me with what combat veterans describe as the 1,000 mile stare and said, “You just keep shoveling.” 

Really, there are times when I pause, lean on my shovel and pray my heart slows to a gallop. I look around through great gusts of frozen breath. Nearly three feet of snow is a marvelous sight to behold.

But so is about anything on my 52-inch hi-def TV. If I could choose, I’d take the TV.

We live half way up a mountain in what is familiar to local weather viewers as the Laurel Highlands. It’s about an hour east of Pittsburgh. It’s the place weatherman always say is “getting really hammered with twice that amount” after they say Pittsburgh’s getting a school-closing eight inches of snow.

I hear that and conclude weather school curriculum must be too severe to allow for decent parties.

Because I spend a lot of time thinking about getting really hammered and this ain’t it. I’d love to break the tedium of constant shoveling with one of those lost weekends I vaguely remember from my days at Ohio University where the weekends used to run from Thursdays to Mondays.

But that’s not going to happen. The forecast calls for more snows and sobriety.

Schools have been closed for seven of the past nine days. The kids are sick of me and the ways I try and cheat to win at things like Jenga.

I look in the mirror and staring back I see Jack Torrance from “The Shining.” He’s been sober since the snows began to fall. His cabin fever is acute. He keeps writing the same disturbing drivel over and over and over.

The literary parallels alone are frightening.

If Scatman Carothers shows up at my door, he’d better watch out.

I told the 55-pound daughter that she could jump up and down on my aching back. She began to do so with glee and continued right up until Mommy told her that she wasn’t inflicting pain, she was relieving it.

That’s the instant she stopped.

My instinct was to drag myself off the floor and drive straight to the bar for sudsy camaraderie. But it seemed foolish to risk winding up in a ditch just to break the monotony with some beers and buddies.

So I just stayed in and challenged the girls to beat me at Jenga.

Besides, baby, it’s cold outside.

"Ich bin ein horny"

2012-02-10T11:57:00.002-05:00

Another week, another New England icon embarrassed by public declarations of a mouthy intimate.

But enough about Tommi and Gisele.

As I see it, we need a constitutional amendment that says White House interns must be at least three years older than the presidents they serve.

I guess my first thought was I was glad Mimi wasn’t our Nana. I don’t know how I’d explain to her granddaughters why Nana was telling Meredith Vieira about the time Calvin Coolidge deflowered her virtue. My skin vicariously crawled for the whole Alford family.

As a student of history, I usually like randy declarations from old lovers that shed new light on powerful men and women.

For instance, I was thrilled to learn that Charles Kuralt, the CBS “On the Road” correspondent, had a weekend wife in Montana that no one knew about until his star-spangled death July 4, 1997. This beloved American icon had for nearly three decades kept a shadow family in Montana, which kind of made him a polygamist with frequent flyer miles.

The Mimi Alford news about John F. Kennedy doesn’t shed new light on him. It sheds new lava light on him.

Most of us were willing to overlook knowledge he was a real player. We knew he’d slept with Marilyn Monroe, the gangster babe and scores of others beehive haired honeys. Most men would forsake their sacred vows for a romp with Marilyn, something every married man and God, even, would likely salute.

Well, every man but Mitt.

But Alford’s story just makes Kennedy seem indelibly creepy. He just comes across as so entitled. And for a Kennedy that’s really saying something!

He got her drunk on daiquiris, stole her virginity an hour later, pushed drugs on her at wild parties, offered to find her an abortion doctor when she thought she was pregnant, and tried to pimp her out to his mates when he thought the boys needed relaxing.

This isn’t what we expect from the leader of the free world, circa, 1964.

This is what we expect from the leader of the Rolling Stones, circa 1964.

I’ve never been one to deify Kennedy. To me, he’s the Democrats answer to Ronald Reagan. Both are overrated because they’re inspirational communicators and Kennedy’s reputation is further elevated by national tragedy.

Admirers like to wonder what would have happened had it not all ended so tragically in Dallas.

Would he have pulled us out of Vietnam? Would he have sought common sense detente with the Soviets? What would the crucible of the Cold War White House done to this vibrant young man?

Here’s what I now think would have happened.

He would have accelerated the ‘60s. He’d have gone to Woodstock and smoked pot on stage with Jimi Hendrix. He’d have alienated the country by leaving Jackie to live communally with a harem of California runaways. We’d never have heard of Charles Manson because the acid kids would have all flocked to Kennedy instead.

The man was a hippie waiting to happen.

I’ve long contended so many men are pigs because so many women are sheep.

But 19-year-old Alford isn’t 22-year-old Monica Lewinsky in 1995 flashing her underwear at Bill Clinton, a provocation that when it comes to that man’s appetites seems tantamount to entrapment.

This reads like rape. Date rape, certainly.

I think it’s important that Alford came forward. She had essential information about one of the most revered and studied men in American history.

Historians and scholars will want to dig into these revelations and layer them onto what we already knew about Kennedy.

I’d advise them to all wear rubber gloves.

Inner earth: the true final frontier

2012-02-09T14:15:00.003-05:00

Russian scientists have succeeded in drilling through two miles of solid Antarctic ice to reach a lake that’s been sealed from human contact for between 15 million and 34 million years, give or take an eon or two.

They are hoping to find microbial life within so-called Lake Vostok that could hint that life could exist on the frozen moons of Jupiter.

I’m hoping they find a copy of my 2003 book, “Hole in One! The Complete Book of Fact, Legend and Lore on Golf’s Luckiest Shot,” current Amazon rank: 1,845,777.

If I could script it, lead scientist Valery Lukin would say, “It was found bookmarked to the page where Arnold Palmer says he remembers his first ace with more clarity than his first kiss because it meant more to him.”

Imagine what that would do for sales. Yes, finding my 9-year-old golf book beneath miles of ancient ice would be ... hmmm ... what’s the word?

Cool?

It would certainly be better than finding Adolph Hitler.

Proving once again it’s impossible to out-crazy the crazies, Russia’s state-run news service, Ria Novosti is reviving a theory that Nazis sent a secret submarine to the lake to deliver the remains of Adolph Hitler and Eva Braun for future DNA cloning.

He’d certainly add philosophical spice to the chow hall debates at Gitmo after Seal Team 6 works their magic.

The report sounds like something you’d read in “The Weekly World News.” Favorite headline -- all together now! -- “Baby Born with Wooden Leg!!!”

I mention The News here because the diggings at Lake Vostok also remind me of another one of their great crusades: purifying the global air by simultaneously popping the tires on vintage cars from the 1950s. The logic is the gush of released air from 60 years ago would crowd all the bad air out of the atmosphere.

It is roughly 4,000 miles from the soles of your sneakers to the center of the earth. The deepest anyone’s ever drilled is 7 miles. What’s beyond that is mere speculation.

Here in Pennsylvania, thousands of my hillbilly neighbors are being enriched by Marcellus Shale natural gas deposits. What other natural wonders await down there?

These lakes are water created by pressure and warmth from below the ice. Who knows? Maybe there are perfectly pure pockets of ancient air.

Air from umpteen millions of years ago would be the respiratory equivalent of moonshine. It would be like 999 proof. One whiff and you’re 10-feet tall and bulletproof.

Because it was Capt. James T. Kirk that first told us that space was the final frontier, we’ve taken it at face value. We could have it completely backwards.

Our future may be beneath our feet. Maybe the world going to hell will lead the world to go to hell.

With climate change, extreme weather, Biblical flooding and drought, I’ve for years predicted that adventure vacations of the future will be anything above ground and out of doors.

So much of our discovery these days seems to hinge on the theory that sooner or later the surface atmosphere of Mother Earth will be too poisonous for people and plants.

Why else would Jupiter’s moons be in the mix?

All I know about Jupiter is the cruel rhyme my daughters use on me when they want to feel superior: “Girls go to college to get more knowledge! Boys go to Jupiter to get more stupider!”

Poor grammar aside, I have no intentions of validating their taunt.

So I’m looking forward to a subterranean future where neither lawns will need mowing nor snow shoveling. Put up a basketball hoop, a cool stereo, a pool table and a big screen TV -- cable, not satellite -- and it would be just like home.

Think about it: Earth, the ultimate man cave.

Can you dig it?

GOP blows whistle on Clint's halftime

2012-02-07T09:21:00.005-05:00

If it’s halftime in America, we’d all better brace ourselves for plenty of flushing and farting.

As a veteran of more than 200 Pittsburgh Steeler home games, that’s what halftime means to me. It doesn’t mean hoped for comebacks. The Steelers are usually favored and protecting a lead.

This may come as a surprise to women, but the men’s rooms in Heinz Field where the Steelers play don’t have individual porcelain urinals, but have instead those stainless steel troughs that stretch for about 50 feet of knee-high wall space. That means those standing at the low end of the slope can expect a communal splashing that ought to have them racing to the nearest laundromat the second the final whistle blows.

The lack of privacy is unsettling to some dainty men. I try and help by telling them the custom at Heinz Field is to put your arms around the strangers to your right and left and offer friendly encouragement.

Anyone who dabbles in public musings knows it’s unwise to say anything nice about President Obama or hint just maybe he made a gutsy call on things like killing bin Laden.

You can count on the conservative backlash to be fierce.

That’s what one of our greatest Americans is finding out.

I’m talking about Clint Eastwood.

Even though he’s never fought for our country, solved a national crisis or found a cure for something itchy, I do consider him one of our greatest Americans.

He’s for more than 50 years made great movies that entertain and help define America. He’s perfectly cool.

Unlike me, he’s never voted for a Democrat presidential candidate and looks at every issue from a conservative point of view.

I have many friends like that. We’d never let politics get in the way of our friendship.

They think about politics, but they aren’t political. There’s a big difference. They are tolerant of my liberal opinions and are open-minded in a political discussion.

And we all love Clint.

They saw the same now-controversial ad featuring Eastwood -- and if his voice gets any more gravelly it ought to be quarried -- saying of Detroit, “They almost lost everything. But we all pulled together. Now Motor City is fighting again.”

None of them reported thinking, “Son of a bitch! The outlaw Josie Wales is shilling for that Muslim tourist in the White House. That’s it. My next pickup is gonna be built in Japan!”

No, they thought, “Cool! Clint’s talking about American auto workers, guys who are as red neck and blue collar as me. Man, I’m glad we’re still making cars in Detroit. USA! USA!”

They saw no political intent. They discerned no pro-Obama messages.

They are not Karl Rove.

“I was, frankly, offended by it,” he told Fox News. Yes, to a conservative an American icon saying something obvious and positive about an American success that happened because of Obama is offensive.

Picking a fight with Clint Eastwood is the clearest sign the national GOP is completely unhinged. They are mired in a dismal primary season being contested by candidates who each have something disqualifying about their record or personality. And that’s disqualifying just to fellow conservatives. With the economy strengthening and adding jobs and foreign policy off the table, they fear they are facing an historic electoral debacle.

Those fears are justified.

Attacking Clint Eastwood might work on Fox News, but it won’t work in an America where anyone with any sense is happy they’re making money and better vehicles in Motor City.

Most Americans are smart enough to recognize when a good thing is a good thing.

Eastwood, who is on record as being opposed to bailouts, has already come out and said the ad is not meant to boost Obama and is intended “to be a message about job growth and the spirit of America,” something he thinks all politicians should embrace.

It’s halftime in America. What are you going to do?

For me, I’ll continue to try and avoid the partisan squabbles that so agitate the petty minds of people like Karl Rove.

Instead, I’ll put my arms around those to the left and the right of me and I will encourage them.

Super Bowl recap

2012-02-06T13:16:00.007-05:00

I woke up this morning feeling like I let Gisele down. I should have prayed harder for Tommi.

• My last sentence for my Saturday post was, “My prediction: Giants 27, Patriots 17. Wake me when it’s over.” What was I thinking? I guess I was fearful the game would be an overblown bore. Wrong. It was a classic.

• My score prediction, however, was closer than many of the best experts and only six points from perfection. Lot of good it did me. I haven’t made a wager in years. Not because I lack the nerve. Freelance writing for a living is a higher stakes gamble than any game of chance.

• The ads for movies next year promise another year of blockbusters stinkers. Special effects haven’t been special since “Jurassic Park.” The new Sacha Baron Cohen movie “The Dictator” looked funny.

• I would have loved a few more plays of watching the Giants try not to score. Why didn’t they just play stall ball? Manning could have taken the snap and just stood there for at least 10 seconds until the Pats had to act. Or he could have just run in reverse. It happens during hockey penalty kills all the time. I used to excel at the maneuver myself when I was an outstanding amateur hockey player. And it’s indicative of my humility that I don’t write about those days more often.

• Seeing Madonna performing with a microphone had me wondering about nipples. Not hers. Mine. Mine are about as unnecessary as her microphone. Why the charade? I was disappointed we didn’t see any nipples, but M.I.A. showed us her finger. I’m all for anything that’ll infuriate the family values crowd, but this was just lame. Of course, before I had no idea of her existence and now I'll never forget her and I guess that was the point.

• I was at a pre-concert press conference with Garth Brooks about 10 years ago. It was just after Madonna had released her dirty book, "Sex," with all those naked pictures of herself and various animals and, I think, Vanilla Ice. I asked with a straight-face if, given the ardent reaction of his female fans, if Brooks had ever considered doing a book like hers. I caught him mid-drink and so off guard he almost shot Pepsi through his nostrils. Had he, it would have been a high-light of my career.

• In four months, Boston fans have suffered two of the most crushing defeats I can recall. The Red Sox blew a 9 game lead with just three weeks left in the season and were knocked out in the last inning of the last game. Coupled with yesterday’s loss, the pall over New England must be impenetrable. I wish I could be there to rub it in. No region raced from lovable losers to obnoxious winners more quickly than New England. Plus, their baseball championships are tainted with performance enhancers, their football with Bill Belichick’s Spygate. Read Ed Bouchette’s great article in Sunday’s Pittsburgh Post-Gazette. The scandal was worse than you thought.

• I thought most of the ads were great. I liked the Rocky-theme one, but wish for jingoistic reasons it had featured an American car company, rather than Hyundai. I liked the Elton John Pepsi one (I sense he enjoys playing dress-up), the Bud Light one about the dog named Weego, and the cat-killing dog. The Seinfeld commercial for Acura was decent, but will get worse and more boring with each viewing.

• Madonna didn’t do anything to disgrace herself -- well, no more than she’s done for the past 25 years. But I kept wondering why the NFL thinks its fans want to watch this kind of circus. In fact, I’d prefer the circus, i.e. Ringling Bros. The only part I enjoyed was the acrobat on the slack line. I’d like next year to see them bring the cat trainer I saw during Mallory Point sunset festivities at Key West.

• I loved the Clint Eastwood commercial celebrating Detroit’s resurgence -- thanks President Obama! I guess it was supposed to remind us of Eastwood’s iconic role in “Gran Torino.” Worked with me. I’d love a half-time show that featured just 30 minutes of clips of Eastwood in “The Outlaw Josie Wales,” “The Good, The Bad & The Ugly,” “In The Line of Fire,” etc.

• Four months ago Giant fans were calling for the firing of coach Tom Coughlin and questioning the leadership abilities of Eli Manning. Eight months from today, bet on it, Giant fans will be calling for the firing of coach Tom Coughlin and questioning the leadership abilities Eli Manning. It’s because 20 percent of the American public are absolute idiots and 80 percent of them are rabid NFL fans.

• Another prediction of mine coming to pass: I said Gisele Bundchen was bound to become the Yoko Ono of the Patriots. It’s all over the news that she’s blaming Tommi’s teammates for the loss.

• Just 15 days until pitchers and catchers report!

Thoughts on the Super Bowl

2012-02-04T16:29:00.005-05:00

I believe I’m deserving of acclaim for having gone the past two weeks and not once mentioning the Super Bowl. In fact, other than a tweet announcing my phone number in Roman Numerals is DCCXXIV CMLXI MMDLVIII, I haven’t really thought about it.

But I fear if I don’t write something about the game, the NFL might revoke my blogging license and I’ll lose out on all these great blogging perks. So let’s ensure that doesn’t happen by filing some scattergun thoughts as the hype ascends to unbearable levels.

• I'm filled with dread knowing something I've avoided for 30 years is bound to happen in scant hours. Yes, I'll watch Madonna perform. Super Bowl halftime acts should be like host cities. We should just go back to the greats again and again. That means Petty, McCartney, Stones, Springsteen each get to play once very five or six years. And I get to pick who performs, which means every two or three years you get a Lucinda Williams, a Todd Snider or Robert Earl Keen.

• Tom Brady keeps making it easy to hate him. This week it was leaked that his supermodel wife Gisele Bundchen had written a sappy note to family and friends asking them all to pray that Tommy does well and leads the Patriots to victory. I'll pray that every Haitian refugee wins their first Super Bowl ring before I pray Tom Brady wins his fourth.

• The high in Indianapolis tomorrow will be about 44-degrees, or about 25-degrees cooler than it will be in New Orleans. Nothing against, Indy, but if I’m going to a Super Bowl, I want to see flowers, outdoor dining and be able to stroll around in short sleeves. The Super Bowl will be in New York City in two years. How long before it’s in Buffalo?

• Why not homeboy John Mellencamp in Indy instead of Madonna? My wife and I saw him with Dylan and Willie Nelson a few years ago. Didn’t know what the expect. The man rocks. He’d be perfect.

• The next step in halftime entertainment will be to project holograms of dead icons. And that will be magnificent. I’m thinking a 70-foot Elvis singing, “Hound Dog.”

• Something tells me this game will be remembered for a really bad call and it’ll involves a Giant defender hitting the Lady Brady just a tad too hard.

• How come Elton John’s never been asked to perform halftime duties? He’s only the most popular and beloved performer on the planet. I’m loving him as much for being so provocative and honest as for all his indelible music. When asked what he thought Madonna should do on Sunday, he advised, “Try not to lip-synch too badly.” A few years ago he described Keith Richards as resembling an “arthritic monkey.” The bitch is back? The bitch never left.

• The only reason I’m happy Pittsburgh got bounced from the playoffs was because it spars us from seeing our idiot mayor participating in those ridiculous inter-city bets the media for some reason feel obliged to cover.

• I’m surprised Bundchen’s note didn’t reveal she spells her husband’s name “Tawmmi” with a little smiley heart dotting the i.

• Other great future hologram performers: Sinatra, Tina Turner, Chuck Berry, James Brown and one day, yes, The Beatles. Mark my words, if there’s a rock ‘n’ roll heaven, one day they’ll reunite on stage at the Bridgestone Super Bowl Halftime Show. It’s bound to happen.

• I hope the Giants so relentlessly and fiercely pursue Tawmmi that he visibly wets his pants and the stain reveals he pees pink.

• My prediction: Giants 27, Patriots 17. Wake me when it’s over.

The wrong kind of neckin'

2012-02-03T09:22:00.003-05:00

I hate to inflict the following on you because I know already have enough on your mind.

But this chronic problem is about what’s just below your mind.

Your neck.

You’re misusing it.

I noticed this because I started to discern my neck’s begun making a slight little click every time I turned my head to the left about 45 degrees.

It’s not painful. It’s not dangerous. Just annoying, like the realization I’ll be watching Madonna perform Sunday.

I spend a lot of time thinking about the human body. Mine and yours. I wonder why we’re shaped the way we are, why some of our bodies appear durable and others start going to hell immediately after we extinguish the candles on our 40th birthday cakes.

It’s important that I keep my body in shape. Not because I’m a fitness fanatic, certainly. I just don’t like to shop. I have all the clothes I need in all the sizes that fit me. If my body starts changing shape or parts of it begin falling off then I need to find time and money to go to the mall and that deducts from essential drinking time.

So when I start to feel a little click in the knees or neck I try to address it.

For instance, I was doing as many as 10 pull-ups a day for the last year or so. There’s a pull-up bar in my office so I use it. If the last guy had left behind a blender, I’d be making milkshakes.

But then my right forearm began to hurt so I stopped doing pull-ups and now use the bar to hang my shirts.

Nothing goes to waste -- except, now, my upper body.

But when I learned what’s causing the neck click, I realized I was doomed to a life of neck clicks.

It’s either that or just drive my car forever in a straight line.

See, our neck use is chronically disproportional. Here’s how:

A cautious driver will pull up to a stop sign and come to a complete stop. Then he or she will turn his or her neck 45 degrees to see if any traffic is coming from the left. Then he or she will turn his or her neck 45 degrees to the right to see if any traffic is coming from the right.

Then -- and here’s the trouble -- he or she will turn his or her neck 45 degrees to the left again before safely proceeding.

We turn our necks to the left twice as much as we do to the right!

Click. Click. Click.

One solution is to alter the sides of the road we drive on every other day, but that could lead to other health problems, notably blunt force trauma from the inevitable multi-car pileups at every single intersection across America.

So now I’m trying to right the ship by spending more non-vehicular time looking anywhere but left.

See, I believe a healthy body is all about balance.

As noted in this April post about my attempts to become left-handed, I’ve long advocated those of us who are right handed use the left hand to do things like brush our teeth, pick up a fork or drink a glass of water.

We need our dominant hands to do things like sign checks and toss darts, but we shouldn’t allow the left to loaf through life. It needs to contribute.

It’s all about the yin and and the yang.

I try and follow up a funny movie with a drama. One night I’ll enjoy chocolate ice cream, the next vanilla. If we vacation in the mountains one summer, the next we’re bound for the beach.

It’s the way life ought to be.

I guess that means tomorrow I’ll have to try and write something intelligent.

Shocking development: my blog is ethically pure

2012-02-02T09:37:00.006-05:00

It may be indicative of this blog’s growing influence that in recent weeks three different promoters have contacted me about making content alterations to include mention of their product or cause.

And it surely is indicative of my boneheadedness that I will mention only two of three -- one of which involves a toilet -- while disdaining the one that offered a $100 quid pro quo.

I name drop the two here not because I endorse the products or because they offered any incentives. I’m just doing so because they asked me so nicely.

The first is Jooble, a Cyprus-based job search website. I was contacted by someone who says he is Serge Lavange.

“I just want to thank you for your wonderful blog www.EightDaysToAmish! I read the post ‘The Great American Beer Fridge’ and then spent another hour reading your posts with great pleasure. Every article is interesting and easy to read! I really like ‘Of Humdingers and Sockdolagers.’”

I read on expecting him to compare my profile picture to Brad Pitt’s.

He said his job is to persuade bloggers to link to Jooble job-finding service. He said, “I really love my job. We have a friendly team and good management, but unfortunately I have no idea how to convince a blogger to link to us, I'm afraid I might lose my job because of it :( ...”

The only way he could have been more appealing was if he or she said he or she was Katarina and her cruel bosses have strapped her to the railroad tracks and wouldn’t free her until I agreed to comply.

“Our site is really cool. It can greatly help hundreds of people to find jobs. I wish you to have a good day and excellent mood! Thanks again for your nice blog. Write more! Thanks!”

The correspondence is rich with irony. He gets paid to read my blog and kindly ask if I, a man who gets paid nothing to produce it, will mention a site that helps other unemployed folks find work.

But I’d get great satisfaction if anyone did get a job from this post or if at least poor Serge could avoid being sent to the gulag so . . .

Jooble! Jooble! Jooble! And thank you, Serge. I hope it all works out for you.

Next freebie mention goes to Mary Beth Duehr and the luxury INAX SATIS Toilet. Her note was brief, straightforward and informative. She said the eco-friendly tankless design delivers on comfort, performance and style.

She didn’t try to flatter me, hint she’d ever even looked at my blog, or offer me a free toilet.

But I read her note and thought of her as a young girl. I’m sure she didn’t grow up dreaming of hawking commodes for a living.

Her job is as thankless as the INAX SATIS is tankless. But it is essential and can help save the planet. So I’m happy to mention it here and do so without ethical ambivalence.

Toilets are an interesting place for a guy like me to draw the line.

You’d think I’d have snapped up the $100 offer to alter this whiny September post about America’s penchant for over-education.

The assigned links led to articles bashing for-profit colleges in favor of colleges that feature things like buildings and cheerleaders. Payment would also require me to include four lines of copy. A snippet:

“These for-profit degrees have the double bonus of being frowned on by potential employers and being tied to an disproportionally high level of student debt. The problem is that everyone is told growing up that graduating college is one of the essential parts of a successful life.”

My post was non-specific. It bashed all education. I must have been striving to be controversial that morning.

“If you agree with these edits, I can promptly send you a $100 payment via PayPal. You can either post the link now or after I’ve sent the payment. Hope this sounds good to you!”

It sounds great. Honest.

It just doesn’t sound honest.

So be wary, ye consumers of web content. They’re trying to influence you in the most insidious ways.

I assure you it won’t happen here.

I can write my own crap. If this blog ever goes down the toilet, I promise you I’ll be the one doing the flushing.

And if it goes down the toilet, you can bet it’ll be down a shiny new INAX SATIS!

Tell ‘em www.EightDaysToAmish.com sent ya!

Cheers to designated drivers

2012-01-31T09:24:00.004-05:00

I was remiss Friday in my telling of our Saturday mission to consume the world’s biggest burger. I glossed over the key element that made it all possible.

I barely mentioned the designated driver.

I fancy with the proper education and motivation I could do anything. I could dash into burning buildings to save singed poodles, I could fly risky spacewalk satellite repair missions and learn to say with dramatic fury, “Scalpel!” in an emergency operating room.

But I’ll never be the designated driver.

Certainly, not like the one we had Saturday. Our driver, Don, is a sober saint.

So Saturday was the perfect mix of the sacred and the profane. He was sacred.

We were profane as all hell.

Here’s how this works: We have a friend who has a friend with a big van. We pay him $20 each to drive us to our chosen debauchery, in this case to Denny’s Beer Barrel Pub in Clearfield, Pa., home of the world’s biggest burger.

There were six of us. So that’s $120 for gas and we pay for his meals. It was two hours each way and we were at the tavern for three hours.

Of course, staying sober for seven hours is easy. But staying sober around six drinkers seems, to me, impossible.

Heck, staying sane in those circumstances seems impossible.

Let me explain. We met at the tavern at 10 a.m. and were offered shots of breakfast liquor. But not just any liquor.

Moonshine! Yes, someone had brought two giant jugs of homemade hootch and we all had a taste while we iced down two coolers of beer.

It was entirely unnecessary. Things like moonshine are meant to help loosen the tongue.

Our tongues were already so loose it’s surprising we didn’t scatter them up and down State Route 119. I remember laughing nearly non-stop from before Punxsutawney to clear past DuBois.

Through it all, Don never cracked a smile or made a single comment, devoting his full concentration to the wet and winding road. It was like we were floating along in some giant happy pod, the six most handsome and funny men on the planet and that feeling persisted throughout the day.

Luckily, we were in a place that nurtured such grand self-delusion -- incidentally only about an hour from the birthplace of Newt Gingrich.

Denny’s isn’t just home to the world’s largest burger. It’s also home to the world’s friendliest patrons and staff. I was thrilled when owner Denny Liegey made a big deal out of us being there and how he regaled my friends with stories about how pivotal my 2002 Enquirer story was to his global success.

This kind of friendly adulation is not uncommon with former story subjects of mine and it remains an enduring mystery to me why I can’t turn any of it into an even meager paycheck.

The pre-ordered burger was, of course, a revelation. My one buddy said I should have ordered the 15-pounder, but I wanted our guys to get a look at the original, the Ye Olde 96er, the six-pounder that started it all.

I was right. We had trouble finishing just the pickles.

It was the first time any meal I’d eaten became a tourist attraction. Strangers kept coming up to our table to take a picture of the burger and the six grown men who kept telling the funny stories that kept the whole room in stitches.

At least I think they were taking pictures of the burger.

And through it all, Don remained the steady stoic. When one of us asked if he needed a drink, he declined. He said he’d already had two.

Two Diet Cokes.

He was never once judgmental or disparaging of our behavior. He simple drove us to and from our destination safely and without wisecracks or preachiness.

So here’s to Don and the other good-hearted designated drivers who facilitate all our fun. We raise a glass to those of you who, for the sake of our silliness, never do.

I don’t know how they do it. Being around six giggly guys like us would drive me to drink.

And I know if it did, Don would be there to see I made it home safe.

America needs a snow day

2012-01-30T11:52:00.004-05:00

Usually by this point in the winter I’ll already have posted three or four I-hate-winter screeds.

The theme is shoveling snow sucks, all snowmen are abominable and that people who enjoy being outside in sub-freezing weather don’t have the good sense God gives a cow.

That’s why I was struck by an alien emotion this morning. I woke up sad it hadn’t snowed.

It started around dinner last night. The day had been pleasant and moderate, much as this whole winter. I’ve had to shovel just twice. As recounted in this winter-blasting howl, I shoveled at least twice a day for three weeks straight in the record snow-hell of February 2010.

Then one of the kids looked out the window and exalted, “It’s snowing!”

Was it ever. We’d gotten an inch in the hour since the sun had gone down. And it was snowing like we’d be buried by dawn.

That seemed to promise one thing: Snow day!

If there’s one thing I love about winter, it’s the school-sanctioned laziness of the snow day.

It’s probably not like that for most employed folks who consider it an inconvenient disruption of their busy, productive lives.

But they’re mostly Type A bullies who won’t let acts of nature deter them from endless money-making missions.

I’m not at all like that. It’s been my custom since I started working for myself -- er, more like NOT working for myself -- to stay home and watch cartoons whenever the school declares a snow day.

I must be something like a Type P person.

I’ve never forgotten the juvenile euphoria of huddling around the radio to hear Jack Bogut on KDKA announce -- yippee! -- no tests or teachers that day. It was like a surprise parole for the wrongly convicted.

I’m of the mind that when the wise men and women who run the schools decide it’s too dangerous to run the buses, it should mean every thing in the whole district closes until at least noon.

It should be like martial law. The only people permitted to drive are operating snow ploughs or are responsible for making pizza or ensuring the state liquor stores are open and stocked.

Then the roads could be declared safe around noon for desperate pilgrims in need of the aforementioned essentials.

My daughters were crushed this morning there was no snow day, especially the sad little kindergartner.

The poor kid’s never had a snow day.

This is the first year Greater Latrobe has had full-day kindergarten. We can argue about whether this will put our kindergartners on equal footing with kindergartners in totalitarian countries that impose things like year-round school.

I’m dubious of the benefits, but who am I to say?

Maybe one day I’ll rejoice that my daughter had twice as much kindergarten as her Daddy. That means twice as many cookies, twice as much nap time and twice as much time gazing around the room to see which kids eat their boogers and which ones just wipe them on the desk.

Yet, with all that elementary education, I understand it’ll fall to me to home-school her in one realm at which I’ve always excelled -- the art of the well-deployed hookie day.

So one day if the weather doesn’t cooperate, we’re going to be like the indoor ski resorts I hear about in places like Dubai. We’re going to have an artificial snow day.

We’ll pretend there’s two-feet of snow outside and get the fireplace cooking right along with the Poptarts. We’ll watch “The Three Stooges,” “Finding Nemo,” and seasons 1 through 4 of “3rd Rock From the Sun.”

We’ll simmer some soup, pop some Orville Redenbacher and stay snug in our jammies clear through the hot dog dinner.

We could all benefit from some Mother Nature imposed down time, a little stretch where the roads are impassable, the lines are down and there’s no one there to tell us to sit up straight or risk missing recess.

Please stay tuned to this blog for frequent weather updates and reminders that you’re working too hard.

America's biggest hamburger & America's biggest ham

2012-01-27T14:18:00.004-05:00

I suppose somewhere there is a group of stylish men who tomorrow will gather to discuss philosophy, the arts or maybe play some invigorating rails of squash.

But that ain’t my crowd.

So tomorrow I’ve accepted an invitation to roadtrip with my circle of friends to a more elemental pursuit where the only squashing being done will involve an industrial quad set of Monroe shock absorbers.

Tomorrow, me and six or so friends have hired a van and a sober driver to take us to Clearfield, Pennsylvania, and Denny’s Beer Barrel Pub, home of the world’s biggest burger, The Yee Olde 96er.

That means we’ll probably scratch about four of the seven deadly sins off the list by around noon.

Denny’s is often profiled on shows featuring consumptive missions impossible. The friendly tavern has been shown on David Letterman, The Food Network, The Travel Channel and dozens of other specials about competitive eaters.

It’s one of those bucket-list destinations that people are drawn to like the Grand Canyon.

Driving there about two hours from our home here in Latrobe is something my friends have discussed for years. This week they decided to go.

That meant I had to go.

Because I helped create the World’s Biggest Burger -- and by “create,” I mean I wrote a short story that helped publicize it around the world leading to mass exposure for a tiny central Pennsylvania tavern that has then on its own risen to global prominence.

But let’s not be picky.

It was in 2002 when I read a story in the Pittsburgh paper about the tavern with the six-pound hamburger -- and I wonder if that guy’s presumptuous enough to be walking around bragging that he helped “create” the phenomenon. Jerk.

It was among the last of more than 1,000 swashbuckling stories I ever wrote for National Enquirer.

Owners Denny and Jean Liegey started offering these meat monsters and challenging daring gluttons to eat the burger in 90 minutes. His quote from the original story:

“We’ve had 325 people order the 6-pounder and no one’s ever finished it,” Denny Liegey said. “We’ve had people come from Germany, England and Australia to try it. They all left with doggie bags.”

I was assigned to accept the challenge. If I finished it, I’d be rewarded with the twin totems of American motivation: a free meal and a T-shirt.

They told me I did better than 75 percent of the previous contestants. And that’s about how much of the burger I finished. It nearly killed me.

Later outside on the patio, I was recovering sprawled on the concrete, mustard and relish dripping off my face and onto my shirt. My blue jeans unbuckled and descending below my butt cheek equator long before it was fashionable.

My photographer said it looked like a mob hit.

The true hit was the story itself. It was just a little item with two pictures on the very last page of America’s most notorious tabloid.

But, boy, did it have an impact. It was in the days before competitive eating really took hold, and when the Enquirer had the market on offbeat news practically all to itself.

The Enquirer was where every producer from every TV and radio show in the world went to find and book offbeat stories.

The burger became an international media sensation. -- six pounds of meat (96 ounces), a three-pound bun, two tomatoes, two onions, a half-head of lettuce, 12 slices of American cheese, and rivers of pepper relish, mustard, ketchup and mayo.

In fact, the restaurant has added stunt burgers up to 123 pounds for $399.99, popular for charity events, graduation parties, etc. (Note: all the big burgers require at least 24-hour notice; consult the website).

Of course, none of us is foolhardy enough to try any of the beef beasts solo. We’ll split it up, sort of like a dainty bunch of ladies.

Our frolic won’t be philosophical, philanthropic or artistic, but in one slim regard -- and this will be the only thing slim about whole excursion -- it will be educational.

Next time anyone asks any of us, “Hey, buddy, where’s the beef?” we’ll all know the answer.

We all love New York

2012-01-26T12:04:00.004-05:00

I used to go to New York City so frequently that hick tourists would confuse me for a native and ask me how to get around.

And, like a native, I’d confidently rattle off detailed directions even when I had no idea of where the hell I was sending them.

I have two sets of friends who will soon be among the city’s 50 million annual visitors enriching New York with $47 billion in tourism dollars. One asked me for some friendly tips about things to do, which I’m happy to rattle off even as I have no real idea of what the hell I might be getting them into.

I do this because I’m an enormous fan of New York City and believe Americans should revel in it every chance we get. It has a vibrancy no where else can match.

I don’t know if I could live in New York, but I do know I can’t live without it.

Some omnibus tips:

• Offer Keanu Reeves pizza -- In Hollywood you see the cars carrying stars. In New York, you see stars. They are everywhere. I’ve seen Mike Meyers on the subway, Sarah Jessica Parker in Central Park, and Regis Philbin at the Guggenheim. And I saw Keanu signing a couple autographs on the sidewalk outside the RIHGA Royal Hotel when I was returning late one night with a pizza. I asked if he wanted a slice. He said, “No thanks, man, I just ate.” He may have been lying, but he was so cool about it I can almost overlook how many lousy films he’s made.

• Stay at the world’s greatest hotels . . . for 60 minutes -- One of my favorite things to do in New York is stop in heirloom hotel lobbies like the Waldorf=Astoria. I wrote this story that ran in The London Independent about how spending an afternoon touring hotel lobbies is one of the great hidden treasures of visiting New York. You may not be able to afford to stay at The Waldorf, but you can certainly afford a cocktail there.

• Eat or drink something wildly extravagant -- It was at the lavish rooftop bar atop the Peninsula Hotel on 5th Avenue in 2000, a few years before Rolling Rock vamoosed Latrobe, a crime that instigated my irrevokable lifelong boycott. I ordered two 12-ouncers and tossed a $20 on the bar. It wasn’t enough. They were $11.75 each. The day before, I’d paid 75-cents for one just down the street from the brewery. The $23.50 plus tip was worth every penny because I’ll tell that story the rest of my life. It goes without saying, of course, you should splurge on one really long and lavish lunch: three hours and at least two bottles of wine.

• Split it up, couples -- Every couple should build in a little alone time in New York. The girls can go shopping and the guys can smoke a cigar at Florio’s Grill & Cigar Bar in Little Italy on Grand between Mott and Mulberry. Here’s my 2008 story about the history of cigar smoking in New York.

• Walk the Brooklyn Bridge -- In a city of icons, this one often gets overlooked. But taking the pedestrian promenade above one of America’s greatest bridges on a sunny day is a strolling splendor. Do it at lunch and you shouldn’t have any trouble getting a seat at The River Cafe just below on the Brooklyn side. It’s where Johnny Sack and Paulie Walnuts discussed family business in “The Sopranos.”

• Dim Sum -- I never visit Manhattan without stopping by Chinatown and Little Italy, two Lower Manhattan neighborhoods that remain the immigrant essence of New York. Dim Sum is a feast so affordable it must not be missed. I like to follow that up with some alfresco red wine on the Mulberry Street, sight of many famous mob hits.

• Pizza at Ray’s -- This can get tricky. Ray’s Pizza is a New York institution. But which Ray’s? The name Ray appears in more than 56 Manhattan pizza restaurants with 24 distinct variations including the words Ray, Famous or Original.There’s Famous Original Ray’s Pizza, Original Ray’s Famous Pizza, Ray’s Pizza, Famous Ray’s, Ray’s Real Pizza, World’s Famous Ray’s Pizza and -- hold the apostrophe -- World Famous Ray’s Pizza. Here’s a 2010 story that explains the phenomenon and where to get the real famous Ray.

• At least two drinks in every tavern -- The people who tend bar in New York are some of the most interesting on the planet. They make dirt, yet choose to live in one of the world’s most expensive cities. Order one drink and they won’t waste their time on you. The second drink friendlies them right up and lets them know you’re there for more than the Statue of Liberty.

• Grand Central Oyster Bar -- The main floor of Grand Central is an art deco treat. But beneath is a bustling mall of restaurants and shops, the best being Two Boots Pizza (I actually prefer this to any of the Ray’s), and the Grand Central Oyster Bar. Be sure to go back to the right behind all the touristy tables to the bar section. Much cooler.

• Central Park -- One of my favorite things about the character of New York is that right there on that island, the priciest real estate in the world, is a non-commercial park so big it can be seen from space. It’s a testament to a driven city that doesn’t overlook quality of life issues. I’ve been through here a dozen or so times, to the museums, the zoo, the ice rink, to the old Tavern on the Green restaurant (now a gift shop) and I still see fresh wonders every visit.

• Squeeze in as many touristy things you can -- Do the Statue of Liberty, Ellis Island, The 9/11 Memorial, a Broadway play, ask the cabbie what he misses most about home and what he loves most about America. Never forget: you’re a tourist. Tour!

• One last tip . . . Take me!

Why the closed casket for JoePa?

2012-01-25T11:31:00.003-05:00

Tomorrow will be another reminder that I must have been born with a heart of stone. They’re burying Joe Paterno and I’ll shed not a single tear.

Not that I’ll be dancing any ghoulish jigs over the loss. On the contrary, I admired JoePa and the way people loved him. His was a life well-lived.

Evidence of that is all over the Keystone State today. They’re standing grief-stricken in the drizzle for three hours to pay their respects to the coach in the rose-bedecked coffin.

Or at least they say he’s in the coffin. I’m always suspicious whenever any public figure is memorialized with a closed coffin.

People could be lining up to memorialize laundry bags of old gym towels. We’ll never know.

The conspiracy nut in me believes rich and famous people aren’t buried, but are stored until, well, you figure it out.

Why the closed coffin? His death wasn’t disfiguring. I’m sure there are some skilled Happy Valley morticians who could pretty up his face and make him look at peace or, better, euphoric as if the Nittany Lions had just crushed Michigan.

I’m also interested in JoePa’s death apparel. Is he wearing a business suit? A Penn State sweater? Will he go to his great reward shaking a blue and white pom-pom or holding one of those big foam fingers?

What people wear in coffins has fascinated me since last year when I did this story about nude tourism. I spoke to one nudist who was mourning the death of her mother, also a nudist.

I had to ask her: did you bury mom in the nude?

“No! She wore her favorite formal dress! What kind of question is that?”

Well, situationally, it was the perfect question. Honest and concise, it would have laid the necessary groundwork for a story about whether or not heaven will be clothing optional.

Call it an expose!

Back to Paterno: what about his eyewear? I want to know if they’re burying him in those big dorky glasses. I would. Not for sentimental reasons or because I’d imagine he’d go unrecognized without them. I just wouldn’t want them around.

They’re too iconic to just throw away, but to keep them would risk one of the grandkids setting up some little stand where gameday fans could pay $5 to get their pictures taken wearing Joe’s glasses.

Governor Tom Corbett ordered the flags flown at half-staff throughout the state, more evidence to me that the man’s a pandering goofball. I think the lowering of flags should be restricted to honoring our fighting men and women and people like George Washington, a man with whom I have at least one thing in common.

We both insist on open caskets.

Washington, it was said, had a morbid fear of being buried alive (I’d call it a logical fear). He insisted he be kept under vigil in an open casket for three days before any burial.

What if someone hears a rhythmic thumping from inside the Paterno coffin?

My, it would make all Tebow’s comebacks look puny.

I try and make it a rule to never love anyone I don’t know, but I am I’m saddened it all had to end for Paterno like it did. He deserved so much better.

We Pennsylvanians did a lot of speculating over the past 10 years about whether it was time for Joe to go. Some wanted him fired. Some wanted him retired.

Me, I wanted him killed.

The perfect ending for JoePa would have been for him to win no. 409 on October 29, a sub-freezing day at Beaver Stadium. I was hoping as he basked in the pre-Sandusky adulation of 100,000 fans, an exuberant linebacker would celebrate by dumping a 30-gallon drum of Gatorade on the coach’s head.

And that he’d die right there of cardiac arrest.

I’m sorry it didn’t happen just like that, Joe.

I really am.

Personal space & Phil Collins's face

2012-01-23T13:26:00.003-05:00

I imagine one day soon it’ll be like a switch is flipped and my daughter is going to tell me to get out of her face.

Who could blame her? Nearly everything my youngest and I say to one another is from a distance of about six inches, well inside the traditional boundary respecting personal space.

She’s perfectly cuddly. She has long eyelashes, perfect skin and big brown eyes warm and inviting as a cup of steaming cappuccino. Except for first thing in the morning where she has the death breath, her every exhalation recalls fresh baked cookies.

She’s at the age when children who have no real grasp of basic math are somehow adept at understanding one fraction.

She’s 5 and a 1/2.

Me, I’m 48 and 9/10. My eyes are bloodshot and my breath often recalls Milwaukee. From six inches, my pores look like facial kiddie pools.

Yet, our nearly every conversation comes at a distance which would cause any other two people to instinctively recoil from one another. And she’s fine with that.

Part of it comes from the compulsory affection I impose. If she asks me to do any little favor -- pour her some cereal -- I’ll arbitrarily sing out, “Eight and 12!”

She knows that means she must crawl up onto my lap and gives me eight kisses and 12 hugs, counting each out one by one.

Then I imprison her with hugs for the next five minutes. I ask her about kindergarten, her classmates and if she thinks one day the dog will learn to talk.

And the whole conversation takes place practically nose to nose.

It’s such a unique relationship, one I couldn’t duplicate with anyone else, not her older sister and certainly not her mother.

Like if Val said, geez, can you finally get around to re-tiling the bathroom floor, I might shout, “Two and three!” I know she’d respond with sarcastic scorn because she’d know I wouldn’t be talking about hugs and kisses.

Either way, that floor’s not getting done ‘til at least the Fourth of July.

So I’m going to enjoy this playful intimacy with Lucy while I can because I know one day she’s going to start to feel about me the way I felt about Phil Collins.

With me and rock stars, it’s rarely complicated. I either like them or not.

But Phil Collins has always troubled me.

It started in the 1980s when he released a series of about four strong solo albums and was the de facto face of mega-band Genesis.

He’s the voice of catchy hits “That’s All,” “Invisible Touch,” “In The Air Tonight,” “Abacab,” and “No Reply at All.”

But unlike Tom Petty, Bruce Springsteen or Mick Jagger, he seemed to mope through rock stardom. His utter lack of swagger turned me off. He’d write an album of sappy ballads and say it was about his latest divorce when he could have easily written an upbeat collection about his newest mistress.

Worse, in a day when album cover art was something that mattered, all his solo albums featured facial close-ups so extreme you could detect without magnification the unevenness of that morning’s shave.

It was appalling. One I could maybe see. But four? It would have been one thing if it had been Olivia Newton John, but not Phil Collins.

He significantly faded over the past decade until he issued a surly retirement notice last year, saying, “"It's hardly surprising that people grew to hate me. I know people are sick of me.”

I imagine I’ll say something along those lines to my daughter when she realizes she can get up and pour her own damn cereal.

But what if it doesn’t? What if she and I share a special bond that endures through even the tumultuous dad-hating teen years?

Phil Collins would probably say that’s against all odds. He’d be right and one day I’ll have to face the music.

And when I do, I promise it’ll come from a distance respecting its personal space.

Re-run Sunday: I pranked the trash man today

2012-01-22T09:43:00.004-05:00

It's always pleasing when a previously unheralded post starts getting gobbled up by huge chunks of readers. This true story earned little traction when it first appeared in August 2010. Now, everyday for the past two or three months, this one's drawing multiple readers. In the last six weeks it's climbed into all-time top 10 best read posts. I thought I'd re-run it today in case any new readers missed it.

I guess it all starts with me wanting to be a garbage man. Some would say I achieved that goal from 1992-2000 when I worked for National Enquirer, a job that required sifting through the occasional trash bin.

But I’m not talking about a journalistic trash man.

I’m talking about the real thing.

As a boy, I’d thrill every time the big truck with the burly men hanging off the back came roaring up the road. They were big, noisy and boisterous. They’d seize the big barrels, frisbee the lids into the hedges and dump all our stinking trash into the big maw in the back.

Then -- EERRRRGGGHH! -- they’d press the button and all the newspapers, food stuffs, bottles and cans we threw away before enlightened recycling began was devoured in the hungry maw.

I never dreamed of sitting in a small, still room all by myself spending hours crafting pointless stories destined to be ignored by the multitudes.

Geez, when I think of it in those stark terms, it’s a wonder I don’t run screaming over to Waste Management and beg them to let me jump on the back of a big green truck bound for the local dump.

And, really, why wouldn’t most men?

It’s real work.

Martin Luther King Jr. was slain while he was engaged trying to bestow common dignity to Memphis trash haulers. The association further ennobles my appreciation for the men who haul garbage.

That’s why this morning I’m feeling so ashamed. I played a malicious trick on a man who contributes so much more for society than I could ever hope to.

Yes, this morning I pranked the trash man.

I know every week on this day he shows up in pouring rain, sizzling sun and does his dirty duties. When the record February snows closed schools, streets and businesses, this two-man crew never missed a day or slipped off schedule.

And every day when they are out there behind The Pond, the tavern above which my office is strategically located, I stop whatever I’m doing and race to the window to watch.

It’s true. It takes them about 10 minutes to hook up the winch and raise the dumpster so all the bar trash falls into the truck. The two-man crew is so conscientious, I’ve never seen so much as a bottle cap drop onto the parking lot.

Then the shaven-headed guy with the sunny demeanor to match his tanned complexion reverses the procedure. The winch cable sets the dumpster back down near the fence between the lot and family home behind it.

It’s easier work than it used to be and safer, I’m sure, but there’s still potential to get a careless hand squashed by all the heavy lifting machinery.

Then chrome dome unhooks the cable, jumps back on the truck and is again on his merry way.

But earlier this spring I observed him adding a surprising natural function to the procedure.

He’d step behind the angled dumpster with his back to the fence. He’d remove his work gloves and set them on the big green bin. He’d look left. He’d look right. He’d look left again.

Even with his body concealed, any man and most worldly women could tell exactly what he was doing.

The trash man was urinating behind the dumpster!

It was broad daylight. It’s in a business parking lot that would soon be crowded with lunch patrons. It’s between two busy streets where people push strollers and walk their dogs.

It seemed so audacious. I was amazed. Certainly, I couldn’t begrudge him need for relief. It’s not likely a local restaurant or customer would welcome him into their homes to use the bathroom.

So a guy’s gonna do what a guy’s gotta to do.

Yet a surprisingly prim part of me felt compelled to signal that using my bar’s dumpster for a toilet was improper.

So today from behind the curtains of my second floor office, I lay in wait for him to answer nature’s call.

He did his job then he removed the gloves. He looked left. He looked right. He looked left again. I waited until he assumed the relaxed posture of a man whose bladder is beginning to spill.

Then I pushed the red panic button on my car fob. Not twenty feet to his left, the only car in the parking lot, my Saturn Vue, began rhythmically and loudly honking.

I don’t know how I expected him to react, but here’s what happened:

He jumped as if he’d been tased. His feet left the ground. His expression was similar to that of a jewel thief caught in the act.

A weekly routine of his that usually lasted in excess of 50 seconds was over in 8.

Startled, he zipped up and zipped back into the truck. In a flash, he and the truck were gone. Only an echo of the engine remained amid the swirling stink.

And there behind the cowardly curtain, I began to laugh. I laughed my ass off for about 10 minutes. And now an hour later, every couple of minutes, I’m still chuckling.

It was one of the funniest things I’ve ever seen.

And I feel small because of it.

It was a dirty, low-down trick on a noble, hard-working man doing a job few admire and fewer would do.

I know some day I’ll need to make amends.

One day I’ll see him in that parking lot and I’m going to apologize. I’ll tell him about my dirty trick and that the prankster in me just couldn’t resist.

Then I’ll offer my hand in apology and respect. I hope he’ll shake it.

And if he does, I know exactly what I’m going to do next.

I’ll rush straight to the bathroom and give that hand a really good scrubbing.

In a world awash in pix, Kodak not the only bankruptcy

2012-01-20T13:40:00.002-05:00

It’s become in one month one of my favorite keepsakes. It’s a just-found picture of my grandfather who died more than 30 years before I was born.

It’s formal picture of him and seven rifle-toting comrades serving under Gen. John “Black Jack” Pershing in the U.S. Second Army near Verdun during the First World War. It was taken Dec. 8, 1917, about 11 bloody months before the war’s conclusion.

It’s one of maybe six pictures I have of the warrior-poet I hope to one day embrace in heaven.

By contrast, I have maybe 10 pictures of me taken with a person dressed as Fiona from the Shrek movies, and nearly a dozen with me and the Bronz Fonz in Milwaukee.

I’ll bet there are maybe a thousand scattered pictures of me holding a golf club and maybe another thousand holding a glass of something alcoholic. There’s one or two full-frontals and a couple featuring the cheeky reverse that coincided with youthful nights of binge drinking.

We took maybe a dozen headshot pictures of me the other day before settling on the new profile picture that’ll appear on my various web sites.

It’s a good thing I was not raised in a culture that believes every time our picture is taken it steals a little bit of our souls.

Mine would now be empty, like the fortunes of the name that was once synonymous with pictures.

We live in an age when every aspect of our lives is on what used to be called film and a company named Kodak can’t earn a dime.

With all the seismic cultural shifts we endure near daily, it’s easy to forget that not that long ago a single perfect picture was something to cherish.

Now, they are much like snowflakes, no two are exactly alike and today there are about a billion of them waiting to cause chaos on the driveway outside my home.

For profligates, taking pictures has become like digital respiration. Nothing particularly distinguishing happened with the last one so you just reflexively take the next one.

Something we once cherished has been forever cheapened.

Let me tell you what little I know of Archibald W. Rodell.

He was the father of a young boy who worshipped him. He died at the age of, I think, 37, in the tuberculosis ward of a Pittsburgh veteran’s hospital, a latent result of the gassings he suffered at the hands of the Kaiser’s henchmen.

He left a notebook full of achingly beautiful hand-written poems about the 10-year-old little boy he was restricted for health reasons from hugging on the other side of the glass.

In an oddity I’ll never shake, I was reading through tears those poems late Jan. 11, 2004, the very night before my own father unexpectedly died. I hadn’t read them in decades.

In the few existing pictures I’ve seen of him, he looks dignified and happy. He is the only man smiling in what I now consider the defining photograph of him, the one in which he was was doing his part to help end The War to End All Wars.

Without any evidence to the contrary, I imagine he was a great man. He was a man of letters and art who fought to free the oppressed and came home to conceive and fleetingly raise the joyful man who so joyfully raised me.

Someday that man’s descendants will click on the trove of pictures of me and conclude grandpa liked to golf and drink, spent portions of his college years running around without pants and smiled like a sedated mental patient whenever anyone pointed a camera in his direction.

I don’t worry about each picture stealing some of my soul.

I wonder if I have any left to lose.

Cerebral fortune cookies: recent tweets

2012-01-19T09:06:00.005-05:00

I posted 65 tweets in the past 40 days. Sometimes I’d go two or three days without posting anything and then have a burst with about five dandies in two hours.

I could probably do more, but tweeting these cerebral sorts of fortune cookies is even less consequential than deadbeat blogging.

But I do enjoy it. It’s like web graffiti. Plus, as I’ve mentioned, a lot of tweets lead directly to blog posts.

I was ruthless in cutting out weak tweets this month, renewing my vow to never let my total rise above 1,001 tweets. I shaved off more than 150 weaklings. One day I will have the only Twitter account with the essence of pure Tweet.

And won’t that be something!

Try and guess which of the following 25 won’t make the cut six months from now. Hard for me to say. I think this is a strong bunch.

• Tim Tebow's inexplicable gridiron success is the greatest miracle since Cosmo Kramer dropped that Junior Mint in the guy's abdomen.

• Call it a gamble, but I'm off to Kmart to purchase thousands of dollars worth of electronics in the hopes some layaway angel bails me out.

• I can see people 500 years ago thinking earth was flat. Then understanding it's really round. But did anyone ever suggest it was cubic?

• New rules aimed at giving pilots more sleep will ensure they’ll have more time to go out and party all night long.

• Will & Kate seem so friendly and engaging I half expect they're going to show up at my house on Christmas just to say hey. Better tidy up!

• Question for the ages: Am I a pig because I eat too much Christmas ham or does eating too much Christmas ham make me a pig?

• How come you never hear of a kid named Santa? It's a great name with cheerful connotations. Only other name so culturally embargoed? Judas.

• True dreamers fly kites with no strings attached.

• Foolish mortals! You think you can tell time. Time tells you!

• Hoopla over Kim Jung Il's death has me confused. I thought Rudolph was the 'deer leader.

• Since the group formed in '72, The Marshall Tucker Band has featured 27 members, none of them named Marshall or Tucker.

• Pundits refer to Ohio and Pennsylvania as swing states. But Wisconsin has the most playgrounds per capita. It's THE swing state.

• Pittsburgh, Jan. 7, 58 degrees. In 10 years there will be indoor winter theme parks where parents will take kids to experience snow, cold.

• The Lord moves in mysterious ways . . . and so does Tebow when he's flushed from the pocket.

• Tebow throws for John 3:16 against my Steelers. Good for him. Now I hope he throws for 666 against the hated Patriots.

• Wondering how long before our smart phones can shoot bullets or our guns can take pictures. Seems some redundancy there.

• Friend says in four months the new Christmas will be August 14. That's the day Tebow was born on in 1987.

• For reasons of global preservation, the Doomsday Clock should be subject to Daylight Savings Time.

• In honor of the annual Super Bowl nonsense about to swamp us all, my phone number in Roman Numerals is DCCXXIV CMLXI MMDLVIII. Call me!

• Just came to me: Superman would sometimes escape wearing an S cape. Alas, this is destined to become my e=mc2.

• I hope next year's Tebow is like this one in every way except that he's either Muslim or openly gay.

• When Yosemite Sam says, "Say your prayers, rrrrrabbit!" does Bugs Bunny pray to the same God as you and I? Or is He animated and voiced by Mel Blanc?

• I'm opposed to spanking but whenever I hear a father say this is gonna hurt me worse than it hurts you I think he needs to spank harder.

• Does it make me liberal or conservative if Jimmy cracks corn and I don't care?

• Parenting advice from Elton John I consider sound enough to follow: Mars ain't the kind of place to raise your kids.

Thanks for reading. Now go ahead and take the rest of the day off and, yeah, tomorrow, too. Weekends rule!

Not going down with the ship

2012-01-18T13:23:00.004-05:00

I mentioned yesterday how I didn’t want to write about the shipwrecked Costa Concordia for reasons of tasteless morbidity.

Well, that was 12 hours ago, more than 248 times the span acceptable to satisfy internet sensibilities regarding matters of taste.

This shipwreck demands our full attention.

Who is Capt. Francesco Schettino? Why didn’t he do more to help his stricken passengers? Hadn’t he ever seen “Titanic?”

Heck, hadn’t he ever seen “The Love Boat?”

Early indications are the ship crashed due to human error. Know what the human error was?

The captain steered the ship. That’s right. He wasn’t supposed to touch the controls.

The ship’s path was set by a computer and Schettino erred by seizing the big wheel and steering the $450 million vessel close to the island of Giglio, Italy, supposedly to impress on-shore residents.

What? The captain of a 4,200-passenger pleasure boat couldn't get laid on board?

And that part about the big wheel? That’s landlubber conjecture. I know there’s a big wheel like that at the local Long John Silver’s. They let me pretend I’m a pirate while the fry cook renders an alleged piece of former fish into something resembling a beach sandal.

If Schettino got in trouble for steering the ship, I wonder what they teach in boat captain school these days.

I’m sensing it’s purely social, like which fork to use and how to tango without stepping on an old widow’s arthritic toes.

The transcripts of the discussion between Schettino and coast guard officer Gregorio Maria De Falco are as gripping as any I’ve ever witnessed.

De Falco, distraught, says to the clueless Schettino, “Go up on the bow -- now! You need to get back on your boat and tell me if there are women and children and what kind of help they need . . . Is that clear? Look, Schettino, you may have saved yourself from the sea, but I will make you look very bad. I will make you pay for this. Dammit!”

Schettino says something like, gee, it’s dark and the water’s cold, causing De Falco to ignite in furious mockery.

“And what do you want? To go back home, Schettino? It’s dark and you want to go home? Get on the bow of the ship and tell me what can be done. Now!”

This De Falco is a great man. He shouldn’t be patrolling coastal Italy for drug runners and drunk fisherman. He should be solving the European debt crisis.

At one point, Schettino says the tilting of the ship “catapulted” him into the water. Now he’s saying he tripped and fell into the lifeboat, a line straying husbands will do well to remember if their angry wives ever catch them in bed with another woman.

One of the stealth facts of the story that’s heretofore escaped my knowledge was just how big these cruise ships have become. There are 300 of them operating around the world and one of them, the Allure of the Seas, has a capacity nearly three times the Titanic’s 2,228 passengers and crew.

Scientists are blaming global warming for the rise of the oceans. Has anyone thought what would happen if all at once, these water-displacing pleasure behemoths were removed from the seas?

The shorelines might instantly revert to what they were when the Mayflower landed at Plymouth Rock.

For not going down with his ship, Schettino is sure to go down in history with Capt. Joseph Hazelwood, drunken skipper of the ill-fated Exxon Valdez.

He is a scoundrel, deserving of condemnation and criminal prosecution.

I’m curious as to from where the sea-faring tradition of going down with the ship stems.

I imagine it has something to do with the captain and the ship being inseparable, but I’ll bet the romantic code’s cost us a lot of good men.

I confess when news of Schettino’s conduct emerged my simple mind went immediately to Capt. Merrill Stubing and “The Love Boat.”

To me, Stubing was the perfect skipper. He was firm, kind and never did anything to put his ship or Charo in distress.

I don’t know whether he’d go down with the ship, but I dimly recall an episode where it hinted he was going to go down with the woman who played Marion Cunningham, Richie’s mom on “Happy Days.”

A pity Schettino wasn’t doing something along those lines below decks when he decided to hot dog it and captain his ship.

Making bad days better

2012-01-17T14:16:00.003-05:00

One day after my daughter had a bad day, I started out having one of my own.

Understand, her day was way worse than mine. She’s 11 and must endure the daily repressions of compulsory primary education.

I’m 48, work above a tavern, and no one tells me what to do. More on that later.

She hadn’t felt well and a teacher had scolded her for being tardy with some classroom duties.

She came home, went straight to her room and closed the door. It was rare dark behavior from a girl so sunny her classmates call her “Smiley.”

Luckily, she has a Daddy who’ll move heaven and earth to make her feel better. Her mother was out last night with our youngest, the one so moody I’m convinced her classmates will call her “Stormy.”

So it was just me and Josie.

After about a half hour, I slid a note under her door: “Some days are diamonds. Some days are stones. Let’s talk if you feel like it.” It had crudely drawn smiley faces and frowns where they belonged.

That diamonds and stones part is a memorable line from an old John Denver song I’ve otherwise forgotten.

It’s true.

I guess we need the contrast to appreciate the good days and shake our lethargies on the bad.

She came out and in two hours I found myself wishing she has what she considers a bad day once a month.

She baked some snickerdoodles and I cooked up a noodle and Italian clam sauce dish we both find tasty. She’s still open-minded enough to enjoy two uninterrupted hours of Bruce Springsteen on the satellite radio.

We talked about so much: her friends, her teachers, boys and we danced right up to the edge of what happens when boys she likes start liking her back.

In the background, we heard The Boss sing about the promised land, getting Mary pregnant and taking her down to the river, and the profanity-enlivened tale of what happens when the ragamuffin gunner is returning home like a hungry runaway.

It was just three hours of me realizing, wow, this is why I’m here. It was beautiful.

Now, here’s my bad day:

Near zero sleep last night. Got to the office intent on writing a blog post and found inspiration evasive.

Write about the sunken cruise liner? Too morbid.

The GOP debate? Too political.

The death of a 3,500-year-old tree? Too arboreal -- and I’ve vowed to avoid topics that subliminally include the word “bore” at the, ahem, root.

Know what I decided to do?

Screw it. I’d beaten my noggin against the wall long enough. This writer was writing this day off. I decided to head downstairs for lunch.

But it wasn’t going to be just my usual lunch. It was going to be a dangerous lunch.

I was going to skip the iced tea and have my first beer before The Price is Right showcase.

And I was going to sip suds and banish my isolation with an afternoon of camaraderie and laughter as soon as any of my friends walked in.

But on this down day none of my friends were there to cheer me up and Dave, the owner, was just busy enough that he didn’t have time to jabber.

So I had one beer and spent lunch reading the paper all by my lonesome and returned to my office wondering if my bad day would ever improve.

It did, and without any alcoholic assist.

Here’s what happened: I spent about an hour thinking about the little things I did last night to vanquish the sadness of someone who matters most.

And I turned a stone into a diamond.

Note: The Pittsburgh Post-Gazette’s “Cutting Edge” column on the Sunday Forum pages featured a mention of Eight Days To Amish, thus allowing me to revel in the irony that something with the word “Amish” in the title is considered cutting edge.

A real pisser of a national scandal

2012-01-16T13:56:00.003-05:00

I predicted via Twitter four days ago that Rick Perry would soon announce he supports and encourages U.S. Marines who wish to urinate on slain and captured foes and anyone they suspect of looking even a little bit French.

Except for the part about the French, I was right on the money. The man who grew up partying at a camp called “Niggerhead,” said on Sunday, shucks, when a man’s gotta go, a man’s gotta go.

“Obviously, 18- and 19-year-old kids make stupid mistakes all too often and that’s what happened here,” he said, adding the most disturbing aspect of the whole episode was -- surprise, surprise -- Obama opposed it.

Inflammatory stupidity is Perry’s knee-jerk reaction to any issue.

Or would it in this case be a jerk-off reaction?

Growing up in America, I never thought I’d evolve into the role of the nation’s moral conscience, but 9/11 and 10 endless years of war have thrown many more cerebral thinkers off kilter -- and don’t mistake my use of “cerebral thinkers” to conclude I’m referring to the current Texas governor (or the last one).

Now, let’s all pay attention: We’re the good guys. We don’t piss down on the dead. We lift up the living.

We’re the Berlin Airlift, The Peace Corp and The Marshall Plan.

The trade surplus of all that’s good that America’s given the world will never be exhausted. We gave the world the cure for polio, the iPhone and Bugs Bunny.

We’re Benjamin Franklin, Elvis Presley, and Arnold Palmer.

It wasn’t self-evident that all men were created equal until we said it was.

There’s never been a people more devoted to helping the helpless. We’re the nation of good intentions and there is tremendous value in that for people who like to travel around the world, walk into a strange place and say, “Hello! I’m an American!”

It’s the sort of thing we shouldn’t so carelessly piss away.

A friend of mine said, “Strapping bombs to a kid and sending him into a crowd to murder innocents is fine for them to do, but it’s wrong for us to piss on dead terrorists?”

Well, yes, my friend, it is.

We do unto others as we’d have them do unto ourselves.

Notice, it’s not “we doo-doo unto others . . .”

Because there’s this: There are a lot of good men and women in harm’s way who joined the armed forces for the very reasons I mentioned. They want to help good people and kill bad ones.

They believe that stuff about winning hearts and minds. They are guys like Pat Tillman or guys who are inspired by guys like Pat Tillman.

And some of them are going to be captured and some of them are going to be killed.

For God’s sake, why would you do something that would put your buddies in any more jeopardy?

As justification for his pro-urination stance, the idiot Perry cited a picture of General George Patton “doing the same thing in the Rhine River.”

Here’s the obvious difference. Patton never did it on the body of a dead enemy; he did it on a body of water.

Like Patton and Winston Churchill, also cited by Perry for urinating on a German fortification, I’m a worldly man prone to enjoying a ceremonial pee.

I’ve peed in both American oceans, the Gulf of Mexico and leaked in great lakes named Michigan, Erie, Superior and, of course, the one pronounced “Urine.”

I’ve peed off a 7,000-foot Canadian Rocky precipice and once took a squirt from high atop Old Smokey. There’s something about peeing from a proud perch that always thrills men like me.

Maybe someday we’ll mature and give yodeling a shot, but for now that’s just the way we are.

But one perch from which you’ll never catch us tinkling is atop the moral high ground.

We understand what Perry and those four now-disgraced Marines do not: Pissing on anyone pisses off everyone.

That’s enough preaching from me for now.

I gotta go.

And rest assured, it’ll be someplace responsible.

Proper prayer posture

2012-01-13T12:11:00.003-05:00

I was in the fetal position in bed praying that God doesn’t discount the prayers of guys too lazy to get down on their knees to worship.

I mostly pray in bed with my fingers crossed like they taught in Sunday school. But unlike Sunday school, I’m naked and usually cuddled up against my wife, not at all what they teach in Sunday school, at least in the boring ones I attended.

My most traditional Christian prayer posture is at the bedside of my daughters. I try and pray with them every night when I’m not out in the bar getting all gooned up with my buddies.

I cherish those moments -- and I mean the ones with my daughters (and, yeah, the ones with the guys, too).

With the daughters, I think if God grades prayers he’d give mine an A.

Knees on the floor, head bowed, hands folded, prayers concise -- I’m talking as much to the daughters as I am the Lord. I ask God to help the sick, the lonely and the sad. Really, I don’t expect God is going to do any of that stuff so I want the girls to know it would be nice if they pitched in and sort of did what we all wish He would.

I never really thought much about prayer posture until about five years ago when I remember seeing a pictorial study of President George W. Bush absorbed in prayer. Watching him in prayer was like watching a magician try to bend spoons with his mind.

He looked deadly sincere, like if he furrowed his brow deep enough God was going to stop watching Tim Tebow play football and say, “Holy cow! George Bush has something really important to say!”

The Bush presidency really challenged my faith. I always wondered what he was praying for.

I can’t imagine he prayed he’d preside over a failed presidency and global condemnation over his unholy Iraq war and a wrecked economy.

The only prayer of his I can imagine God possibly answered in the affirmative was maybe, “Dear Lord, please let one of my daughters grow up to be a Today Show correspondent.”

At least that’s working out.

The Muslims are fierce prayers. Five times a day they tilt toward Mecca and assume postures fitness crazed Americans do only in yoga class when they want to achieve a tight fanny.

Hearing children pray is a delight. My all-time favorite was when our youngest was 4. It was the evening before Easter and I said a very moving prayer about about the resurrection.

After my amen, the little one chimed in, “And God bless the Easter Bunny and God bless yourself,” a perfect mingling of the sacred and the secular.

I’ve said a lot of prayers with my fingers gripping a steering wheel, and I used to say a lot of prayers in lecture halls holding, not a Bible, but a No. 2 pencil. I’m not proud of it, but I’ve even said prayers while bent over 6-foot par putts.

God’s been about 50-50 on granting the latter.

To try and gain some insight on proper prayer posture, I engaged the source men and women of faith reach for whenever they seek spiritual guidance.

Yep, I Googled it.

The Biblical Research Institute cites chapters and verses where the Bible tells how holy folks prayed.

It cites examples of men and women communing with God while kneeling, standing, sitting, lying down on a bed (yes!), or prostrate on the ground with their noses in the dirt.

It says there is not one recommended prayer posture: “Any attempt to select one as superior and indispensable over the others lacks biblical support.”

I guess that means Tebowing is okay, too.

Faith in this world of woe is often elusive. I spoke with two people this week who are questioning their faith.

I encouraged them to struggle through their doubt and believe.

I’m perfectly happy deadening the logical part of my brain in favor of thinking there is a God who loves us and wants us to love one another.

All we can do is pray our prayers have even a prayer of being heard.

Twinkie bankruptcy: time to nut up or shut up

2012-01-12T11:36:00.004-05:00

I was overcome by an alien impulse as I strolled down nutritionally desolate aisle 6 of the local grocery store.

Seize the Twinkies!

News that Hostess Brands, makers of Twinkies, Ding Dongs and Ho Hos, was going bankrupt had apparently triggered a run on the golden sponge cakes with creamy fillings.

Some Twinkie fiends had already laid siege to the shelf. There were only three 10-packs of the indestructible treats still for sale for $4.29 each.

The boxes show the smilin’ Twinkie the Kid cowboy, the creation of some former art student who may once have fancied him or herself the next Picasso, and a supersized Twinkie with the nitpicky legal disclaimer “Product Enlarged to Show Detail.”

That Twinkies were sinking is something that just last year would never have registered with me.

It’s probably been more than 30 years since I’d last eaten one.

If that makes me sound like some sort of snack food snob, it’s misleading.

I eat tons of crap. I love chips, pretzels and about any dark sweetness produced in Hershey, Pennsylvania, a lovely company town that looks like all company towns would look if companies were run by 6 year olds.

And, as I’ve said before, the day chickens start laying Cadbury eggs is the day I become a chicken farmer.

So while the Twinkie’s never tickled my taste buds, something about its forbidden waste always tempted.

The reason I felt compelled to start hoarding Twinkies has less to do with the unsinkable pastry -- for experimental purposes I just submerged one an hour ago (still afloat) -- than it does with Tallahassee.

Not the city.

I’m talking about Tallahassee, the redneck zombie slayer.

Tallahassee is the name of the Woody Harrelson character from the uproarious 2009 movie, “Zombieland.”

It’s a difficult comedy to sell to dainty viewers who are put off by films that include graphic scenes of the living dead feasting on human flesh.

So now when people ask me what “Zombieland” is about, I never say it’s about zombies.

I say it’s about one man’s quest for the world’s last Twinkie.

And it is.

Tallahassee -- to prevent from becoming too familiar, they call each other by their hometowns -- realizes that the zombie apocalypse means production of his beloved Twinkies has forever ceased.

Somewhere exists, he knows, a box of Twinkies.

“Not just any box of Twinkies, the last box of Twinkies that anyone will enjoy in the whole universe. Believe it or not, Twinkies have an expiration date. Some day very soon, life’s little Twinkie gauge is gonna go . . . empty.”

So, being a careful sort, I had to buy a 10-pack.

Like I said, I haven’t eaten a Twinkie since the late 1970s, but something about them has always beckoned. It’s just so iconic.

It’s the subject of a book I have to get around to reading. It’s Steve Ettlinger’s “Twinkie, Deconstructed: My Journey to Discover how the Ingredients Found in Processed Foods are Grown, Mined (Yes, Mined) and Manipulated into What America Eats.”

Ettlinger explores how things like Polysorbate 60, Sodium Caseinate and beef fat become part of a simple snack cake.

The concept is pure genius.

I showed Val the box of Twinkies like it was a new puppy.

“Look at this!” I said. “I’ll bet I haven’t had a Twinkie since 1979!”

“That’s probably about when those Twinkies were made,” she observed.

Deciding to savor the anticipation, I put the box aside until the kids were in bed.

Coincidentally, Val had taped a movie made at roughly the same time she suspects the Twinkies were. It was “Broadcast News” from 1976.

What a great, prophetic movie.

It’s funny, because I grew up in the ‘70s and remember it being a time of innocent joy. There was The Partridge Family, Speed Racer, The Steel Curtain and the dawning awareness that life was getting more interesting as one-by-one the girls began filling out their sweaters.

“Broadcast News” reminded me of all the unholy tumult that was off the radar for a boy who’d yet to grasp the importance of the daily news.

There was Patty Hearst, the Munich Olympics, Pol Pot, Watergate, the Nixon pardon and the chaotic conclusion of the Vietnam War.

It wasn’t nearly as idyllic as I remember. Sure, parts of it were decent, but overall it hurt a lot of people and left a bad aftertaste.

You know what?

So did the Twinkie.

Men with tails making monkey out of me

2012-01-11T13:20:00.006-05:00

Shortly after losing to Alabama in the national title game Monday night, LSU Tiger coach Les Miles told reporters his boys “played their tails off.”

The remark caused me to sit up.

His players had tails?

This was extraordinary news.

It was confirmed later when I heard a distraught LSU player say “we got our tails kicked” in the 21-0 loss.

I hadn’t heard nor could tell by viewing that players from one of the nation’s best college football teams had tails. You’d think the uniforms would have needed obvious tailoring.

I’ve always been drawn to stories about human birth oddities. I think this curiosity stems from reading “Weekly World News,” which often features stories like, “Baby Born with Wooden Leg!”

The WWN at one time or another has published stories about babies born with tattoos, ear rings, halos and false teeth.

I remember reading one story about a baby born without bones. His parents used to carry him around in a bucket. There was a picture of this smiling little face cascading down the steps like a human waterfall.

I like to ask prospective fathers what they’ll do if their newborn is born with a tail.

I don’t pose this to mothers. They are often in a delicate emotional state and would be horrified at the thought their offspring might be different from any of the other neighborhood morons, as if goofball homogeny is some sort of genetic virtue.

Evolutionarily speaking, babies born with tails aren’t much of a stretch. Nearly all human embryos have tails that are one-sixth the size of the actual embryo.

In adult scale, that means a surviving tail would hang down just past the butt cheeks.

It’s a pity most of our human tails are eventually absorbed into the fetus because it’s hard to dislike any creature with a tail.

I can’t think of wagging tails without thinking of Casey, our beloved golden retriever who was with us from 1992 through 2007. His tail was like a big shaggy tennis racket.

It was forever clearing coffee tables of newspapers, wine glasses and microwave TV dinners.

The mess never bothered us because Casey was just such a big, lovable galoot.

Today I have a lot of friends who fit that description so I don’t miss Casey all that much.

If LSU players had tails, I’m surprised they didn’t play better.

A human tail in some cultures is believed to bestow God-like powers.

That’s the case with Chandre Oram, a West Bengal, Indian, tea smith. His 13-inch tail has made him an object of devotion to many who believe him to be the human incarnation of the Hindu monkey god Hanuman.

What I read in Wikipedia about Hanuman is too confusing to repeat here, but he must be a monkey god of great humility.

If anything about me led strangers to conclude I was worthy of adoration, you can bet I wouldn’t be schlepping tea to parched Indians.

Some of Oram’s devotees claim to have enjoyed miraculous healings after touching his tail.

So Oram is remarkable as much for his restraint as for his tail.

I know many, many men who would use the surplus appendage to convince women it had healing powers. They’d lure them into dark rooms for therapeutic petting. Only these men would be fraudulent about what they let the women pet.

One other factoid from the on-line en-pseudo-pedia: Oram says the tail makes him think he’s part monkey, just like Hanuman, because he likes to jump, climb and eat bananas.

I don’t see a correlation there. Most men enjoy those things.

Perhaps further study is needed.

We need to find for observation a sampling of monkeys who’ve lost tails in accidents or been born without them.

It would be interesting to see if they display urges to spend long hours in bars talking sports and spousal dissatisfactions.

Who knows? They might make dandy bloggers.

Even with the anatomical alterations, I’m sure a real monkey would still have a compelling tale or two.

Steelers lose; Tebow amazes

2012-01-09T14:00:00.005-05:00

The Scriptural implications of the Steeler loss are too immense for me to tackle here, especially in the wake of an afternoon full of poor tackling.

So instead of a typical post, I’m going to open the floor up for questions.

And wouldn’t it be fun if anytime anyone said they were going to open the floor for questions, the floor actually opened up and all the questioners fell screaming to Hell?

Anyhow, the floor is now open for questions: watch your step.

Q: How depressed are you over the Tim Tebow-led Bronco upset of your hometown Steelers?

A: Hardly at all. It was an outstanding football game. The Steelers have won six Super Bowls in my lifetime and will surely win again. As a fan, my cup runneth over -- and so do the three Stanley Cups and I’ve seen the Penguins win. I refer you to last year’s take when the Steelers lost to Green Bay in the Super Bowl if you’re interested in my thoughts on disappointment.

Q: Your thoughts on Tebow throwing for 316 yards, a numeric reminder of his favorite Bible passage, John 3:16?

A: Love it. It’s a nifty reminder of the Bible’s most beautiful promise: “For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, that whoever believes in him should not perish but have eternal life.” Let me be the first to point out that the final score could refer to Proverbs 29:23, “A man’s pride will bring him low, but he who is lowly in spirit will obtain honor.” I interpret that to mean monster Iowa offensive tackle Reilly Reiff will still be available when the Steelers draft 24th.

Q: Do you have any opinion on the complicated new NFL overtime format?

A: It’s my understanding that it’s no longer sudden death and that both teams get a shot at scoring unless they don’t. The format took four times longer to explain than the actual overtime took to play. It proves once again the NFL is ruled by people who love rules.

Q: Are there any historical precedents for Tebow’s feat?

A: Yes, two. The first is Franco Harris’s 1972 Immaculate Reception; and the 1984 “Hail Flutie” pass that allowed Doug Flutie and Boston College to beat the University of Miami. The Tebow play has the same sort of indelible wow feel. It’s the heart of what makes watching sports so special.

Q: What about the Tebow naysayers? None has been more critical than one of your favorite old Steelers, Merrill Hodge. What would you say to him?

A: His mea culpa should be public and along the lines of an obscure old Don Schlitz country song called, “Six Words.” It’s about what a married man should say when he’s been caught redhanded making a terrible mistake: “I’m an asshole. It’s my fault. I’m a worthless slug in deed and thought. I’m so grateful deep down I got caught . . . ‘cause I’m an asshole and it’s my fault.”

Q: A little harsh on Hodge, aren’t you?

A: No, harsh will be what he experiences when he walks through every restaurant or airport for at least the next four months. His criticisms of Tebow seemed bitter, petty and somehow personal. What good would sports be if we didn’t allow for the possibility that sometimes magical things can happen?

Q: Are you saying what happened with Tebow was magic or miraculous?

A: What I’m saying is the Lord moves in mysterious ways. And so does Tebow whenever he’s flushed from the pocket.

Q: Still don’t think he’s a skilled quarterback?

A: There are times he looks with a football like I look when confronted with a question involving math: he’s confused, he looks like he needs help, he acts as if he’d like to toss the thing in the air and run the other way. But that just makes it that much more entertaining when he completes an actual pass, sort of like when I can calculate a tip without electronic assistance.

Q: Did Tebow beating the Steelers inspire you to hum any spiritual hymns?

A: No, but I can’t get “Pinball Wizard,” the Elton John version, out of my head. I think we can all agree when it comes to football, that deaf, dumb and blind kid sure plays a mean pinball.

Q: Still think there’s a chance that Tebow might be Jesus, as you wrote two weeks ago?

A: I’m not saying one way or the other, but I hope my graciousness in defeat will be something he’ll remember on Judgement Day.

Q: Well, that’s a surprisingly Scriptural take from you on a football game. Anything else?

A: Yeah, remember that John 11:35 verse, “Jesus Wept?” It has me wondering if He bet the Steelers.

Q: So I’m to take it you’re rooting for Tebow and the Broncos to beat the Patriots?

A: Certainly, and for ironic balance I’m hoping in victory he throws for precisely 666 yards.