"Use All The Crayons!" newsletter No. 4
(Featuring blog post: "Nostalgic for when phones were phone shaped")
Today’s edition: Happy 45th Birthday Tiger Woods; nostalgic for when phones were phone shaped; how Rizzo’s is like MASH; plus all the usual folderol — and that’s the best kind!
Colorful Living Tip of the day (I) …
326: Be nostalgic for when phones were still phone-shaped (see related blog post below).
Random Biblical Observation …
Noah’s Arc was the only cruise ship in history where every level was a poop deck.
Arnold Palmer: On This Day in …
1975 — Tiger Woods is born. His go-for-broke style and electric on-course performances will inspire commentators to compare him to a young Arnold Palmer.
Today’s Reason to Visit Latrobe, Mister Rogers’ REAL Neighborhood …
Not only do we have Fred Rogers in our hearts, in Latrobe Fred Rogers is also on our street signs.
Zeitgust Word of the Week (a word I made up with the goal of getting it into a dictionary) …
Birthquakes: The intense contractions that convulse a pregnant woman as she’s about to deliver a child; labor pains.
Days Until Pittsburgh Steelers Come To Latrobe for Training Camp: 212
What to do today in the Laurel Highlands …
• Get some New Year’s takeout from Rizzo’s Malabar Inn: For reasons I cannot fathom, I looked across the Rizzo’s parking lot and forgot I was in Crabtree. I could have sworn I was in Korea during the war. I was in a M*A*S*H triage unit with dozens of other needy men and women. But we didn’t need surgery. We needed spaghetti. Covid restrictions have turned the popular Italian destination restaurant into a marvel of speedy and efficient takeout. Customers pull in, lineup and wait by their cars as waitstaff retrieve orders. They then deliver reasonably priced and delicious Italian food to be sent home for consumption. It’s all done with with the kind of easy cheer you’d expect from Hawkeye and Trapper John. Maybe that’s why I thought of Korea, not Crabtree. Both M*A*S*H and Rizzo’s excel at meatball surgery.
• Give your new gun a go. A&S Indoor Pistol Range is a great place to go ballistic.
• Wax the skis! A near record December snow has given Seven Springs and other Highland ski resorts a solid base.
Today’s featured post …
Nostalgic for when phones were phone-shaped
It’s a common marketing misconception that the clunky old phones are incapable of as many functions as the spiffy new smart phones. But in many ways the old phones were far superior.
For instance, you can’t murder anyone with your new phone.
I remember seeing mobsters in old movies bring those heavy black phones crashing down on the noggins of hapless stool pigeons.
Ain’t no app for that.
And you could probably strangle some noodle-necked miscreant with the cord if you were really strong and patient enough to have all those coils unwind to a homicidal tautness.
I’m beginning to long for the days when phones used to be phone shaped.
For all it does on my behalf, I have very little affection for my iPhone. Maybe it’s because familiarity breeds contempt.
I know my iPhone better than I know the back of my hand. That’s probably because the iPhone’s usually in the front of my hand.
Today our phones consume our lives. We hold them. We respond to them. We care for them — right up until the moment we leave them behind on some bar or accidentally drop them down a toilet.
No one ever dropped one of those old phones into the toilet.
I fear the next generation of smart phones will be Chiclet-sized and the next great self-inflicted public health calamity will be phones getting stuck deep in our ear canals.
You won’t be able to walk down the sidewalk without some stranger saying, “Hey, would you mind looking in my ear? My phone got stuck in there. And here are some tweezers. Try not to hit the send button. I haven’t finished updating my Facebook status.”
The class action lawsuits will roil the industry.
“Better Call Saul!”
Mostly, I’m missing the physicality of those car-battery sized phones that used to sit immobile on desks or kitchen counters in every home in America.
I liked that five seconds of fire alarm excitement that would happen whenever it rang and I was in the living room watching football.
The phone was ringing! Maybe it was an assignment! Maybe it was a babe! Maybe it was some attorney calling to tell me a long-lost uncle was leaving me his bootleg whiskey fortune!
I’d dash to the phone, my pulse racing in anticipation.
Then I’d get there and stop and stare at the ringing phone.
It could be good news, but what if it was my folks calling to pester me about getting a real job? What if it was an impatient bill collector? What if it was an angry husband calling to accuse me of indecent behavior?
I’d stand there contemplating the possibilities for so long the caller would eventually conclude no one was home and would just hang up and I’d go back to watching the football game never knowing who it was or just what the hell they wanted.
Ah, yes, the hang-up.
The joy of slamming the phone down on some jackass was for those of us with insane rage issues was deeply euphoric.
It didn’t matter whether it was a telemarketer, a collection agency or an erstwhile pal, the hang-up countdown always went something like this.
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah!”
“Oh, YEAH?”
“YEAH!”
The key was timing it so you’d achieve maximum agitation with just enough lag time that you could slam the phone down in the caller’s ear the split second before he did it to you.
If he’d beat you to it, you’d have to call him back and angrily shout, “Did you just hang up on me?”
You’d do this certain he’d answer because there was no caller ID and the guy wouldn’t want to miss what might be an important call. So this could go on all day.
Of course, the advent of caller ID ruined the cottage industry of prank phone calls to which I contributed so much ever since the fifth grade.
What only the truly devious know is that old phone mechanics lent themselves to great pranks.
It happened once at the Nashville Banner a few years before I got there. That was back when the Banner and The Tennessean were competing newspapers sharing the same floor of the same building. One night, reporters from The Tennessean invaded our empty news room, unscrewed the mouth pieces from every phone and removed the donut-like amplification devices inside that made communication possible.
So at about 6 a.m., all the Banner reporters came in and began routinely calling police sources throughout Middle Tennessee only to hear confused desk officers say, “Hello? Hello? Anybody there?” before they’d hang up.
The reporters could talk, but the officers couldn’t hear.
It was beautiful.
The only thing that could have made it any better is if the Banner editors stopped the presses to run a front-page story under the screamer headline: “STATE LAW ENFORCERS UNDER SIEGE BY BAFFLING PHONE OUTAGES!”
The old phones used to last 20 years. They’d deliver the news of births, deaths and be essential in building the connections that made those events relevant. Remember trying to have an intimate conversation on those phones with the whole family lurking? It’s amazing anyone ever got laid.
Today’s phones are obsolete in about 18 months. It’s a dreadful scam.
One other thing. You can’t karate-chop answer the new phone without risking ruining the new phone.
I saw Sam “Mayday” Malone do this to an old phone once on “Cheers.”
There’s a certain spot above where the receiver meets the cradle that if you karate chop it, the phone would spring right out of the cradle and into the sky where the deftly coordinated among us could snag it with a swashbuckling flourish.
Today, answering the phone involves a bit of a squint and a contemplative finger poke not unlike a chess master uses when he or she moves a recklessly exposed bishop.
So, yeah, I guess I have issues when it comes to phones.
I’d call them hang-ups but I wouldn’t want any younger readers feeling the need to poke at their smart phone for meaningful definition.
COLORFUL LIVING TIP II …
338: Realize your life is all the stuff that happens between the time you’re doing all the stuff that winds up on your resume.
Oddly enough …
Darwin, Minn.: The town saved by the giant ball of twine
You wouldn’t want to be in Darwin the day Earth gets invaded by giant cats. This is the home of the world’s — oh, what the heck — the universe’s largest ball of twine collected by a single person. At 11 feet, 9 inches high and 40 feet around, the 8.7 ton object is large enough to give a pachyderm-sized feline nine lives of numb-skulled fun. For the 250 people of Darwin, Minnesota, the twine ball has provided more than enjoyment. It’s provided a living. Of course, it goes without saying that much twine can really bind people together. Hank Quinn of the Darwin Community Club said the town was hanging by a proverbial thread before the giant ball really got things rolling. “This town was saved by the giant ball of twine,” said Quinn, uttering the title of what would make one heck of a Adam Sandler flick. “Without that ball of twine, Darwin would be dead. All there’d be would be the bank the machine shop, and the grain elevator. That’s it. Its success has breathed life into Darwin.”
The Page 1 “Crayons!” Pledge (still applies)
The Book Is STILL Free
That’s right. Free. Anyone who wants a copy mailed to his or her home, no charge, is welcome to one. Just ask.
Author Chris Rodell, of course, encourages you to buy it and hopes you’ll support him and the people who distribute, promote and sell books. But if you’re one of those Americans who are out of work and having a tough time, or if you know a US serviceman or woman who might benefit from a book that aims to brighten daily lives, then Rodell wants you to get in touch at storyteller@chrisrodell.com.
He doesn’t believe a book that, at its heart, aims to help people be happy should be withheld from anyone over a few dollars. “It’s said the best things in life—love, friendship, laughter—are free,” Rodell says. “I don’t presume this book is among the best things in life but, by God, there’s nothing to say it can’t keep good company.”
And finally …
“Crayons Tip no. 1001” … “Learn the fine art of knowing precisely when to quit.”
About …
Chris Rodell is the author of six books, the most recent being “Undaunted Optimist: Essays on Life, Laughter & Cheerful Perseverance.” Pennsylvania Gov. Tom Ridge says, “Rodell writes about life the way Sinatra sings about New York, unflinching about the gritty realities, but with abiding affection and relentless positivity abut the future.”
A swashbuckling freelance writer since 1992, Rodell has rassled alligators, raced Ferraris, jumped out of cloud-cruising airplanes and in one week gained 20 pounds eating like Elvis.
Besides unconventional biographies on Fred Rogers and Arnold Palmer, his other books include “Use All The Crayons! The Colorful Guide To Simple Human Happiness,” and “The Last Baby Boomer: The Story of the Ultimate Ghoul Pool,” a 2016 satiric novel about the life and death of the last baby boomer (winner of the ’17 TINARA Award for best satire).
He is a sought-after and entertaining motivational public speaker and as seen in this 2015 clip the recipient of the greatest author ovation of all-time.
Rodell lives in Latrobe with his wife Valerie, their daughters, Josie and Lucy, and a small loud dog named Snickers.
He’ll write for anyone who’ll pay him. He is a PROSEtitute.
All Chris’s books can be purchased through www.ChrisRodell.com