Questions

I am a naturally curious person. I want to know how things work and why they happen the way they do. Some things puzzle me, and I have yet to get an acceptable answer. Here are a few things I’d really like to get answers for.

When did strip joints become Gentlemen’s Clubs? For the record, I’ve never been to either, and I don’t have any desire to. But the question remains. Did it happen when they left downtown for the suburbs? Here in Pittsburgh, there used to be some famous (or infamous) strip joints on Liberty Avenue. There was one place that supposedly employed a stripper who could smoke a cigarette with her vagina. Obviously, that’s a strip joint, no gentlemen involved. Some years ago, the city tried to shut the strip joints and porn theaters down, and they succeeded. They are all gone now. That’s a good thing, but there was always something amusing about going to the theater all dressed up and looking across the street and seeing a sign on a storefront promoting “Doc Johnson’s Marital Aids.”

Most of the downtown strip joints are gone now, but there’s a place uptown called Blush, which bills itself as Pittsburgh’s only ‘totally bare’ gentlemen’s club. To repeat, show me the gentleman. There’s a place not far from where I work that claims to be a gentlemen’s club. I’ve never seen anyone going into or out of the place, but it doesn’t look too upscale to me. I suppose that’s the question. Why do they call them gentlemen’s clubs when the guys who go to them are usually anything but? If anybody has any thoughts, let me know.

Question number two. When did models become supermodels? Did they all get a promotion I didn’t hear about? There’s a woman named Janice Dickinson who claims to have been the first supermodel. I’d never heard of her until she got her own reality show.

And I can’t tell you how relieved I was when Niki Taylor reached age 20. I didn’t have to see her referred to as “teen supermodel Niki Taylor” any longer. Besides, when every model is a supermodel, none of them is. Who decides? Does appearing in the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit issue make you a supermodel, or do you have to appear on the cover of Vogue or Elle? I don’t know. It bugs me. Every time I see a photo spread of women’s clothes, I wonder if it’s peopled with models or supermodels. I guess it depends on how expensive the clothes are.

Try this one on for size. Here in Pennsylvania, cars are required to display their registration tags, or license plates, as we call them here in PA, on their rear bumpers. By contrast, Ohio-registered vehicles have to display tags on their front and rear bumpers. Consequently, there’s a market for “front plates” for Pennsylvania cars. You see them for colleges and universities, car dealers put them on cars they sell, and here in the western end of the state, lots of them for the Pirates, Penguins, and especially the Steelers. Some of them bear the team logo and the words "#1 Fan." I’ve seen many of these for the Steelers and Penguins. Maybe I’m taking this excessively literally, but can’t a team have only one #1 fan?

Just askin’.

Do Not Go Gentle

I firmly believe life is not a zero-sum game. It seems, however, I am in the minority. Case in point, the dedication of the U.S. Post Office in Freedom Pennsylvania to John Scott Challis, Jr. John was a brave young man who died of cancer about two years ago. He was eighteen years old. As his cancer advanced, he became in inspiration to many people because of the way he lived, not the way he died. He got to meet, and spend time with major league baseball players, watched a hockey game from owner Mario Lemieux’s box at the Mellon Arena, and made a lasting impression on Joe Maddon, manager of the Tampa Bay Rays. Maddon still has an autographed jersey from young Mr. Challis in his office in the Rays’ locker room.

An article about the Post Office dedication appeared in the June 7, 2010 edition of the Beaver County Times, including the paper’s on-line edition. Like most papers, the Times allows readers to post comments to articles in the on-line edition. In this case, I wish they had made an exception. The ugliness in some of the comments was overwhelming, and horrifying. Many of them were to the effect that people, even young people, die of cancer all the time, and what was so special about this kid? Do these people not realize that the honor bestowed upon John Challis does not diminish the lives or memories of their own loved ones who died too soon? I am the brother of a man who died way too soon. He was only 20. At 29 years remove, it still hurts, so I know whereof I speak.

I’ll tell you what was so special about this kid. He didn’t have an ounce of give-up in him. Stories of his courage abound, from the RBI single he hit in a varsity baseball game a few months before he succumbed to cancer, to his starting a foundation to help gravely ill kids realize some of their sports-related dreams. He realized he wasn’t the only one who would like to watch a hockey game from Mario Lemieux’s box. “Courage + Believe = Life” That’s the name of his foundation, and in effect, his epitaph. It’s not grammatical, and to a purist like me, an affront to the English language. But for this young man, I’ll make an exception.

But that’s not what’s so special about this kid. What’s so special about this kid is that as he was dying, his father whispered to him that it was okay, and he could let go.

“No.”

He raged against the dying of the light. That’s what’s so special about this kid.

Strange Sights on Greentree Hill

For nearly the last five years, I’ve been driving to work on the western leg of Penn-Lincoln Parkway, commonly known to Pittsburghers as the Parkway West. Most everyone who drives the Parkway hates it. It’s only two lanes wide in most places, and all it takes is one person who decides the posted speed limit really is the speed limit to screw things up for everyone else. Everyone else being those of us who consider speed limits more of a guideline. The most annoying aspect of driving the Parkway West is the bottleneck where the Parkway, Route 51, and Banksville Road come together, just before the entrance to the Fort Pitt Tunnel. Traffic backs up, usually up to, and beyond the top of the hill that leads down to the tunnel. Everyone around here calls it Greentree Hill for the town that straddles the crest of the hill, and the road that runs perpendicular to the Parkway. If you reach the top of Greentree Hill at 7:10 a.m., you can expect to spend about 20 minutes inching along until you reach the tunnel, after which everything opens up again.

As I related to my nephew, who’s driven in with me on several occasions, it’s taught me patience. He thought we should make it part of the Jedi training. Good idea. It’s also given me the opportunity to observe some bizarre behavior, usually in the area of grooming.

My favorite was the woman in the car front of me one day who was applying hair spray from an aerosol can. Inside her car. I shudder to think of what that did to the car’s interior, not to mention her lungs. Seeing people apply make-up in bumper to bumper traffic is common. Their vehicles aren’t moving, so in theory, there’s no harm in it. It’s often eye make-up though. Some people go so far as to apply mascara. God help them if they get rear-ended when doing that. A few weeks ago, I saw the woman in the car behind mine plucking her eyebrows. Another daring type.

Lest you think I’m being sexist, it’s not only women who do strange things in their cars. I’ve seen plenty of men with a finger up their noses. I also saw one guy shaving with an electric razor. Smoking is not remarkable, nor is the sight of one or more people in a car sleeping while someone else drives. Tying a necktie is something I’ve observed even while vehicles are in motion. I’ve seen pickup trucks covered with camouflage vinyl applique, and of course, the testicles suspended from the trailer hitch. They often also display a confederate flag, just to make sure there are no misunderstandings. You’re an ignorant redneck. I get it.

It wasn’t on my morning commute, but I once saw a guy on a sport bike in the opposite lane driving with one hand and texting with the other. My personal vice is playing air guitar on my steering wheel. I’ve been known to “dance” in the driver’s seat, but usually when I don’t think anyone is looking. I’ve been busted a few times, but it’s worth it. You’ve got to do something to deal with the boredom. The traffic jams have taught me patience. I’ve learned not to let delays, crashes and other issues ruin my days before they start. It’s part of the Jedi training. Most mornings, the Force is with me, but every once in a while it’s demolition derby. Not long ago, I was terribly delayed getting into the Fort Pitt Tunnel. When I finally got through, I saw why. There was a crashed and disabled car perhaps 25 yards past the tunnel exit. To make matters worse (for me, I’m sure it wasn’t fun for the people in the crashes) there was another crash near the exit of the Parkway East I use. Demolition derby day. But I didn’t let it ruin my day. I’ve learned patience. Now if I can only figure out how to build a light saber.

Disposition

I’m fifty now. Half a century. Oddly, turning fifty did not bother me. I got depressed as hell when I turned forty, but not at fifty. I suppose that means I’m smart enough to understand that being fifty years old beats the hell out of the alternative. I am, however, conscious of the alternative, so like it or not, I’ve given some thought to what I want to become of my remains after I die.

I know for sure I want to be cremated. I have no desire to have my blood replaced with embalming fluid and then put in a casket and concrete vault. I am made of the stuff of Earth, and I want my body to go back whence it came. Cremation hastens the process to be sure, but with cremation, I won’t have my body taking up any real estate.

What then, do we do with the ashes? My Master’s degree is from West Virginia University, and everyone who’s ever been associated with the U knows we hate Pitt. Also known as the University of Pittsburgh, or more properly, that communist, God-hating school in Oakland.

The plan is to have my ashes scattered from an aircraft flying over Mountaineer Field in beautiful Morgantown, West Virginia. It should be done while the Mountaineers are playing Pitt, winning, of course.

Ideally, the person dumping my ashes out of the aircraft will be able to judge the wind such that the ashes are carried to the section where the Pitt fans are seated. That way I’ll know that a little part of me is getting in some Pitt fan’s eye.

Let’s Go Mountaineers!

What Not to Do if You're Afraid Your Son is Gay

I am the prize dork of all time. See "Who Says I'm a Dork?," below. It’s not a bad thing. In fact, it’s an honorable tradition in my family. My father and my brother Michael were; my brothers David and Ron are too. Their sons, Christian and Casey, respectively, will carry on the family tradition also. Ron’s second son, Andrew, is only six weeks old at the time of this writing, so it’s too early to make a call on him.

For the uninitiated, there is a difference between a nerd and a dork. A nerd is someone who’s one-dimensional, and tends to fade into the background. Sort of like an accountant. Dorks have presence. For better or worse, you know we’re there. You can usually count on us to say or do the wrong thing at the wrong time. Consequently, we tend to be socially awkward and less than desirable to the opposite sex. In my case, even if I did manage to elicit any sort of female interest, I was often oblivious to it, and even if I had not been, would not have known what to do anyway.

A year ago, my wife met a female high school classmate of mine, who for some reason told Dawn that she had a crush on me when we were in high school. She averred, correctly, that she didn’t think I was aware of it. I hadn’t the slightest idea. The prize dork of all time.

As you might imagine, this did not bode well for my social life. Throughout my high school years, I didn’t date anyone, spent lots of time alone, and didn’t hang with a crowd. For the most part, the groups I did spend time with tended to be all male. As I was to learn, this caused my mother some concern.

I don’t know exactly when it happened, but I think it was during my Senior year of high school. I recall being seventeen at the time. It was a Sunday morning, and as was my custom, I was at the stove cooking some scrambled eggs. I was just about six feet tall at the time, and weighed a whopping 155 pounds. My mother, who stood five feet four in heels, walked over to me, and stood perhaps a centimeter away from me. I guess the time had come for her to get an answer to the question that had been eating at her for God knows how long.

She looked up at me, batted her eyes a couple of times and asked, with utmost sincerity, “Ed, you do like girls, don’t you?”

I was so taken aback I couldn’t think of anything witty to say, which is probably just as well, because if I had even joked about being gay, she would have had a heart attack on the spot. I assured her that I do, indeed, ‘like girls,’ and we never spoke of the matter again.

For the record, I am happily heterosexual, and no, I’m not going to provide references. The best thing to come out of this was that when I finally did start dating, she was so relieved that I was bringing home girls, and that they were white, that I didn’t have to worry about her disapproving of my girlfriends.

I remember her query as one of the great missed opportunities of my life, but when you’re a dork, you can’t always come up with the ideal punch line. I am biding my time though. One of these days, I plan to try this out on Christian and Casey.

The Anatomy Lesson

My mother’s family is Lebanese. When we were growing up, that meant two things to “the kids.” First, we had lots of great food. Second, when our parents didn’t want us to know what they were talking about, they spoke Arabic.

It’s difficult to render in English some of the words we learned. Arabic is a much more musical language than English. “God willing” is “Uzzha Allahruud.” Uzzha has the u-sound like ‘up’ and the zzha sounds like ‘Zsa Zsa,’ as in Gabor. Allahruud starts with the same ‘up’ sound, and you have to kind of roll the r into the uud, kind of like you’re saying “rood.” I know a few more words in Arabic, but aside from the words for grandmother and grandfather, nothing you’d use in polite company.

Then there’s the Z-word, Zubra. We learned the word when I was in college, and started calling each other zubra all the time. My brother David became the Big Zubra, and Ronnie became the Little Zubra. It was a convenient and stealthy way to call each other dicks without anyone else knowing what we were saying.

The anatomy lesson came the day before I graduated from college. David showed up at my fraternity house on the morning of the day before graduation. He came with my brother Michael and his friend Mitch. They had my friend’s pickup truck; the plan was for Michael and Mitch to go to Dickinson, my college, get my belongings, and return home. They were to leave David with me. We would later be joined by my mother, Ronnie, and her two sisters, Aunt Phil and Aunt Esther. The Aunts, as they are known to the entire family, are textbook maiden aunts. They love the hell out of all their nieces and nephews, but they also have high standards for us. They found it hard to tolerate any sort of misbehavior, and have, I think, lived their entire lives believing sex is dirty and disgusting. All the time, not only when you’re doing it right, as Woody Allen put it. They therefore didn’t like us throwing the Z-word around.

Aunt Esther, now retired, took up one of the three options that were available to women who grew up at the time she did. She became a nurse. The other options were teaching and the convent. She eventually ended up teaching at the nursing school of a nearby hospital and taught religion for her parish’s Confraternity of Christian Doctrine program. That’s about as close to the Trifecta as you can come.

Aunt Phil had a number of administrative/clerical jobs and was the family enforcer. When we were kids, we were all terrified of her. She was our parents’ ultimate threat. Whenever we’d start to get out of line, somebody’s mom or dad would order us to straighten up or they’d send in Aunt Phil. After that, you could hear a pin drop.

To get back to the story, the afternoon before graduation, my mother, the Aunts, and Ronnie showed up to my fraternity-house room. Ronnie was wearing a jacket his team had been awarded for winning the Pop Warner football championship. Like all little brothers, Ronnie was terrible for stealing my clothes. His two rationalizations were a) “I never see you wearing it,” (Of course not. I’m usually 200 miles away at college). And b) “It fits me good,” as if that entitled him to have it. I once tried walking into a department store and leaving with a Hart Shaffner & Marx suit. I was all prepared with the “It fits me good,” argument. I made it out of the store. The suit didn’t.

I remarked on how nice the jacket was, and tried it on. I turned to David and said, “Look, Zu, it fits me good.” Ronnie kind of smiled, but my mother and the Aunts just looked disgusted. It was such a pleasure to see my brothers that we carried on in our usual manner for much of the time, annoying the Aunts, and my mother, who tended to be much less tolerant of us when her sisters were around. We were scheduled to go to dinner that evening with my then girlfriend, but David didn’t have a belt to wear. I don’t know why it was so important, but we had to get him a belt. As I drove to the J.C. Penney store at a mall in Carlisle, Pennyslvania, David and Ronnie were giving each other their usual hard time.

By this point, the patience of the three women in the car was just about gone. The final straw came when one of them punched the other on the arm and drew the response, “You zubra!” That was too much for Aunt Esther. “You boys! You use that word, zubra, and you don’t even know what it means.” Obviously, she was angry, because otherwise she would have known this was exactly the wrong thing to say to David.

“So tell me, Aunt Esther, what does it mean?”

“That’s your penis and your scrotum.”

I almost wrecked the car. Even my mother laughed.

We eventually made it to dinner, and Ronnie and David were well behaved throughout the meal, probably out of fear. My mother and the Aunts were charming. My girlfriend passed inspection; she and I eventually went our separate ways.

I’ll never forget how and when I found out the true meaning of the Z-word. Someday, I’ll pass that bit of knowledge on to my brothers’ boys. After all, what are uncles for?

Who Says I'm a Dork?

Actually, I do; all the time. I often stake my claim to being ‘the prize dork of all time.’ It’s time to document the incident that will settle the debate permanently.

In 1985 I was director of Employee Relations for the county government of Beaver County, Pennsylvania. My staff and I were in the midst of installing a new Payroll, Benefits, Position Control and Budgeting system. It was a huge undertaking, requiring lots of weekends and late nights. It happened on a weeknight in September or October. We were in the Employee Relations office, me, some of my staff and people from the Data Processing department.

As I recall, we were knee deep in paper, validating data. I was in my office, and everyone else was in the outer office. Someone came and knocked on my door. “Ed, there are some people here to see you.” I walked out into the office and saw my former girlfriend, Molly, and her roommate, Mercedes. At the time, they were undergraduates at West Virginia University, in Morgantown, West Virginia some 90 miles from where I was, in Beaver Pennsylvania. I was able to collect myself well enough to say hello and invite them into my office. On a lark, they had driven from Morgantown to my parents’ house with the idea that the three of us would go somewhere to for drinks. They visited with my parents for a while, then drove to the Court House to see me.

There I was, in my office with two attractive co-eds, who wanted to go to a bar with me, and had driven nearly a hundred miles to do so. It was the first time I met Mercedes. She was gorgeous, and Molly was nothing to sneeze at either. I knew enough to realize I couldn’t leave everyone else working and go out with them. I suppose I could have sent everyone home and then gone out. My favorite bar was right down the road. But I was 25 years old, and trying to make a name for myself as a guy who could get things done. Our target for full implementation of the new system, ‘going live,’ was January 1, 1986. I made my apologies and sent Molly and Mercedes away.

It’s now 23 years later, and just last night, I was driving home and realized what an idiotic choice that was. Two hot chicks in my office asking me out. That just doesn’t happen to guys like me. Me and the two of them. Alcohol. Freedom. I even had a credit card. The possibilities were endless. The legendary ménage a trios was not out of the question. It could have been the greatest night of my life, up to that point. I sent them away, stayed and worked.

I am the prize dork of all time.