This isn’t exactly cycling-centric, but, like you, I have many other interests. This is the Introduction and first 8 (of 81) chapters from my new eBook of columns, plus a few of Susan’s many photos from the book. If you’d like to purchase the entire eBook, it’s on my Etsy page along with all my cycling books. Here’s the link. This new one is $5. I will post a few more columns from time to time. I’m off to England soon and then … to Provence for some cycling … and blog posts.

Introduction

            I was a newspaper reporter for about 30 years, covering all the things newspaper reporters cover: fires and floods, cops and courts, politicians and elections, business, the arts, and sports. In the midst of all this “regular” reporting, I found a way to have some fun as a wacky columnist. 

            I wrote columns about: The names kids call their grandparents, my encounter with the Soup Nazi, shearing a sheep, playing paintball, running with President Bush (the second one), what women really want from men and vice versa, wedding-band inscriptions, the difference between naked and nude, the Rollercoaster Reverend, pourers vs. cutters, a dog wedding, my day on the set of Men In Black II, James Bond’s brother, Bud the Wonder Car, Wally the pet alligator, Woody the frog, and the secret to being a Romulan.

            Recently, I started cleaning up my office and going through 30 years of accumulated clips (which are the copies of my articles and columns) from the Philadelphia Inquirer (1986 – 1996), Bucks County (Pennsylvania) Intelligencer (1996 – 2003), Allentown (Pennsylvania) Morning Call (2003 – 2006) and Columbus (Ohio) Dispatch (2008 – 2010 and 2012 – 2015). It was fun looking through my old columns. Some made me cringe (what the hell was I thinking?); several made me chuckle. The process also made me nostalgic for the days when newspapers were thriving and relevant and I was a part of this important aspect of democracy, society and culture. 

            And so, I started thinking: Why not take my best/favorite columns and turn them into an eBook. Someone will want to read it, right? Maybe, maybe not. Who knows? There’s only one way to find out. 

            OK, enough already with all the introduction-izing. Here, in non-chronological order, are my favorite columns along with several of Susan Cunningham’s photos. Some go perfectly with the column they’re paired with, while others … not so much, but they’re great photos and break up all the text. 

 

Still Grandparents, No Matter the Name

            Growing up, they were always Grandmom and Grandpop. When I was in a hurry, it was Grandma and Grandpa. All my friends called theirs Grandmom and Grandpop. Life was so darn simple.

            So, imagine my confusion when my sister Lauren’s three kids – Josh, Justin and Jessica – I all started calling our parents Uppie and NaNa.

            Wait, there’s more.

            After a quick survey, I uncovered the following names some of my friends’ kids call their grandparents: YaYa, Mom-Mom, Row Row and TuTu.

            What gives?

            I asked my sister why her kids called our parents Uppie and NaNa.

            “Uppie is what Dad called his grandfather,” Lauren explained.

            “No way,” I said. Being the older brother of two sisters, I love telling Lauren and Debra when they’re wrong. And believe it or not, they don’t seem to mind.

            “Dad never even met his grandparents,” I said. 

            My father’s parents left their respective old countries – Czechoslovakia and Hungary – long before my father was born, leaving their parents and his future grandparents behind forever. 

            “Well, that’s what he told me,” Lauren said. “You’re the big-shot reporter, why don’t you find out.”

            See, I told you she doesn’t get mad when I correct her.

            “I had an aunt and uncle,” my father began. “Everyone called him Uppie, which is Hungarian for father, and her Unyaca. He was a rather wonderful, kind, patient man. When your sister asked me what I wanted to be called, I said Uppie.”

            OK, we’re halfway home.

            “Unyaca sounds too much like an onion, so I didn’t want to be called that,” my mother said.

            I told her that, according to Lauren, she was NaNa because that’s what came out of Josh’s mouth when he first learned to speak.

            Wrong again Lauren!

            “I picked NaNa,” NaNa explained. “There was this really neat older woman I was friends with and her grandchildren called her NaNa. Her great grandchildren called her NaNa-NaNa.”

            I can’t wait to tell Lauren.

            My friend Howard’s daughter Amy calls her grandfather YaYa.

            “I gather it’s because Amy couldn’t pronounce Zaideh, which is Yiddish for grandfather,” Joe told me when asked how he became YaYa.

            Sorry Joe, not even close.

            “He just thinks she couldn’t pronounce it,” Howard said. “She just wanted to change it and when she started calling him YaYa my mother thought it sounded really cute.”

            Amy calls YaYa’s wife Mom-Mom.

            “I don’t know why, I just always called her that,” Amy said.

            Kathy and Rich’s twins, Lee and Blair, call their grandmothers Row Row and TuTu.

            Row Row?

            “When they were little, she always sang Row Row Row Your Boat to them,” Rich said.

            TuTu?

            “Supposedly TuTu is Hawaiian for grandmother,” Rich said. “When the twins were born my parents were living in Hawaii and we went to visit them. They screamed and cried the whole way (on the airplane); the people sitting near us won’t ever forget that trip.”

            If you have any more wacky, interesting or amusing names for grandparents, send them to me, along with the explanation.

October 21, 1996 … Intelligencer

            Note: I decided to start with this column, which was my 8th More Stuff column in the Intelligencer. This was an important column, as it taught me a valuable lesson: Involve the readers. Encourage them to write and share their stories, foibles, eccentricities and little bits of nonsense that connect us. 

            And get this: Back when I first started writing this column, we didn’t have email. It was still a few months away. People had to write their letters to me in longhand or type them and then mail them in an envelope with a stamp. And they did. Lots of them. I eventually received enough Grandmomisms to write nine columns. So, stay tuned for more Grandmomisms. 

            Another Note: I checked … and it seems Dad has the story of his name all wrong. The Hungarian word for father is “apa” and grandfather is “nagyapa.” I couldn’t find “uppie” on any of the Hungarian-word websites. Oh well, why let the facts get in the way of a great family story. He’s Uppie, his uncle was an Uppie, and that’s that.

What Women Want

            Unlike Mel Gibson’s character in the movie What Women Want, I can’t read women’s minds. 

            Or my wife’s handwriting.

            However, unlike Mel’s character, I’m a newspaper reporter/columnist and can ask women what they want, and then totally listen to and care about their answers – or at least pretend to totally listen and care. 

            So, I asked several women what they want from men and…

            Mercy: “Women want a man who can both listen and talk. It seems there are a lot of good listeners and a lot of men who love to hear themselves talk. What a woman wants is a man who can do both.”

            Are we also supposed to be able to chew gum at the same time?

            Kim: “My turn on the couch with total control of the remote while my husband tackles the ‘tower of terror’ in the laundry room.”

            Amy: “For men to stop trying to find some magic answer to this question.

Amy’s poor husband must be totally confused.

            Claire: “We don’t know what we want; we want a man who knows what we want!”

            Claire’s husband must be even more confused than Amy’s husband.

            Debra (my sister, who lives in England): “When my friends used to ask me what I was looking for in a husband, I would say that all I really wanted was someone who had a short last name and was taller than 6 feet. I found Ken.”

            Ken is 6-feet, 4-inches tall and my 4-foot-10-inch sister went from Debra Wartenberg to Debra Corey. She lost five letters and gained a towering hunk of a husband.

            Fiona (one of Debra’s British friends): “We still dream of a cross between James Bond and the man in the Milk Tray adverts.”

            I checked with Fiona, and Cadbury makes Milk Tray chocolates and, in the adverts (what the British call TV commercials), the Milk Tray guy is handsome and mysterious and he sky dives, skis and swims past sharks to deliver chocolates to women and then “vanishes out the window and absails (this is either British for sails or Fiona is a really bad typist) away so the woman never knows who he really is. The key is mystery and romance – and someone who will go to all lengths to please his lady.”

            Joyce (my mother-in-law): “A sense of humor and he has to be a Democrat or at least left of center, and smarter than me.”

            Oh, the jokes I’ve refrained from adding about this one!

            Susan (my wonderful wife): “I want you to always hear and remember everything that I say and do; a new outfit with boots to match; a romantic dinner at a fancy restaurant where we can talk; and chocolate … and stop writing about me in your stupid column!”

            Victoria (my sister-in-law): “Shoes!”

            Freda: “A man who knows his way around the washing machine, how to listen without offering unsolicited advice, likes to dance and doesn’t look ridiculous doing it … and he puts the lid down.”

            Sandy: “Funny, sensitive, sympathetic to our needs, really listens, will pitch in and do a load of laundry without being asked and, this is a clincher, replaces the empty toilet-paper roll and puts it the right way!”

            Women do seem a bit obsessed with laundry and toilets. And yet, I bet the Milk Tray guy never did a load of laundry in his life. OK, I’m out of space … and I’ll leave it up to all you men out there to heed the advice of these wise women.

December 24, 2000 … Intelligencer

            Note: Soon after this column came out…

What Men Want

            It seems my recent column about what women want from men sparked a lot of interest … from men. Several responded, telling me what they want from women. Now remember, this is what they want, not what I want. So, don’t get mad at me. I’m just their messenger.

            Dave Bayer wrote: “Let’s put it in Hogan’s Heroes’ terms; we want a Sgt. Schultz – ever faithful, but a bit ditzy.”

            Yo, Dave, are you sure you want a woman, who, every time things get a little romantic, says: “I see nothing! I see nothing!” [I’m a little surprised my editors let this through all the way back then].

            Al DeVries sent a lengthy e-mail with about 40 things he wants from women. He obviously put a lot more time and effort into his response than I put into the actual, original column. Thanks Al, this is exactly what I’m looking for from readers.

            Some of the things Al wants are:

            *If you think you’re fat, you probably are. Do not ask us, we refuse to answer.

            *Do not cut your hair. Ever! Long hair is always more attractive than short hair.

            *Ask for what you want. Let us be clear on this one: Subtle hints do not work. Strong hints do not work. Just say it! Better yet, go get it yourself and give it to us to give to you.

            *Come to us with a problem only if you want help solving it. That’s what we do. Sympathy is what girlfriends are for.

            *Check your oil … please!

            *Whenever possible, please say what you have to say during commercials.

            To sum up: Al, who has been married six times (only kidding), wants a thin, long-haired woman who is straightforward, mechanical, strong and concise.

            Uncle Wes wrote to say he took issue with Mercy’s desire for a man who can both listen and talk.

            “Men DO listen,” Uncle Wes began. “You can catch every fifth sentence and still get the whole story. It’s like watching soaps. You watch once a month and can catch up completely. Men just need the facts. Women have to relive every moment in living color, with aromas, tastes and lots of touchy feely.”

            I think Al and Uncle Wes would hit it off.

            Mike Russo also got into the spirit of the debate.

            “I can’t speak for all my brothers, but as for me, if I met a woman who is into the arts – music, drama, etc. – has faith in God, a wicked sense of humor, can sing, enjoys the childlike aspects of life, knows how to take care of themselves, wants someone for the long term, wouldn’t mind having kids, and can deal with my schedule of day job and working actor/musician, then I’d consider a date.”

            Sorry Mike, but I’m not running a dating service here, you’ll have to find this perfect woman all by yourself.

            OK ladies, this is what several men out there want from women. And remember, this is what they want, not me. So, you know who to get mad at.

January 7, 2001 … Intelligencer

            Note: As I mentioned before, input from readers was vital. And so, as soon as we got email, I added my email address to the end of my column, along with my mailing address, fax and phone numbers. Yep, fax. We got lots of faxes back then. The column came out and … no email address. I figured this was an oversight and asked my editor. She said something along the lines of: “We don’t put the email addresses of any of our columnists at the end of their columns because that’s our format and we can’t ever change.”

            I responded with: “Well, all the other columnists are nationally syndicated columnists from the Washington Post or New York Times; I’m the local columnists and need to connect with our local readers. Plus, you don’t put their mailing addresses or fax numbers at the end of their columns and you put them on mine.”

            Nope, this logic didn’t work. Finally, after a couple months and several arguments with an assortment of editors, my email address appeared at the end of the column. This is the type of dinosaur thinking that doomed newspapers.

Are You and Your Loved One Banana Compatible?

            Bananas are the ninth-leading cause of divorce in this country.

            I never believed this statistic until I got married and quickly learned Susan and I are banana incompatible. And, sure enough, since our nuptials, bananas have been an on-going problem in our otherwise perfect marriage. I can’t tell you how many nights I’ve had to sleep in the garage after a big banana fight.

            And we don’t even have a garage.

            However, I recently devised an ingenious solution to our problem and can’t wait to share it with all you other banana incompatible couples out there. It’s my way of giving something back. 

            But first, this just in from my nephew Justin: Why did the banana use sun block?

            So he wouldn’t peel!

            OK, here’s our banana issue: Susan likes to eat hers when they still have a little green on them and are barely ripe – which is pretty much the only way they sell them at the supermarket.

            To me, these yellowish-green bricks are way too hard and have no taste. 

            I enjoy my bananas when they are yellow and have a few black speckles, which are nature’s flavor indicators. You rarely find them this way in the supermarket and have to let the yellowish-green ones ripen for a few days.

            “They taste too banana-ee,” Susan says of the speckled bananas I prefer, and she refuses to eat them.

            We argued, we fought, we cried and made up, promising to never again let bananas come between us. And then we’d go through the whole darn thing again the next time I’d buy a bunch of bananas, only to find them all gone before they ripened the way I liked them. We went to the area’s leading marriage/fruit counselor, who suggested we switch to mangoes.

            We tried, but it just wasn’t the same.

            Cereal with sliced mangoes? In oatmeal?

            No way; we need our bananas; we need our potassium.

            Just when it looked as though things were hopeless, I came up with my brilliant idea: On Sunday, I went to the supermarket and bought a bunch of yellow-green bananas – just the way Susan likes them.

            On Monday and Tuesday, Susan had one with her cereal, while I suffered in silence. Later that day, I went back to the supermarket and bought another batch of unripe, yellow-green bananas. The next morning, I had one from the first batch with my cereal and Susan had one from the new batch. 

            Our marriage was saved!

            But only as long as I continue to go to the supermarket three or four times a week. This is a small price to pay for true banana happiness and wedded bliss. Now, if only I can solve our soft (Susan) vs. hard (me) scrambled egg conundrum, life would be even more eggcellent.

February 10, 2000 … Intelligencer

            Note: I heard from other banana incompatible readers after this column appeared.

            Sharyn wrote: “For my household (just my husband and myself), once a week, I buy 7 bananas (from different bunches). We each eat one-half banana a day and luckily, we both like them brown speckled. My husband eats his half banana with cereal for breakfast and is gone to work before I even get up. My husband makes a nifty little cover from banana skin for the exposed end of my one-half of the banana. Luckily, I like the stem end and he likes the other end. What do you call the other end of the banana anyway? These issues relating to banana ripeness and end preference are things that should probably be resolved before marriage.”

            Sharyn is right: This is an issue that needs to be sorted out before the wedding.

            While I have never been able to discern a taste difference between one part of the banana from the other, my dentist, Dr. Bash (really, that’s his name), read my column and told me he only eats the ends of a banana.

            “Why?” I asked.

            “The ends are sweeter than the middle,” he said.

Skirmish Unveils True Natures

            We boarded the bus as strangers, a bunch of raw recruits, nervous and scared, hoping we’d have what it took when the paintballs started flying. 

By the end of the day, we were hardened combat veterans, exhausted yet intoxicated by the sweet taste of sweat and blood. We compared war wounds and bragged about our skills, and our exploits seemed to grow in stature and sheer bravery with each retelling.

            I learned a lot about myself during my day at Pocono Whitewater Adventures playing paintball, and even more about my friend and fellow reporter here at The Intelligencer, James Wilkerson.

            Pasty-faced, balding and slightly pudgy, James is a computer geek and proudly boasts the only exercise he gets is parking his car in the back of lots. He’s never met an athlete he didn’t make fun of, and he actually brags about being picked last – “after the 200-pound girl” – in every game he was forced to play during recess in elementary school.

            But when our Skirmish (what this paintball place calls their game) began, I witnessed a miraculous transition.

            James became John Wayne.

            He raced through the forest, leaped over rocks, fired deadly shots on the run and bellowed orders, using words like flank and perimeter.

            But first, before I tell you about the Legend of James, a little background. Paintball combat games have become quite popular, and Skirmish is one of the biggest, with 39 fields covering 700 acres. Armed with specially designed guns with carbon dioxide cartridges that shoot marble-sized paintballs at 190 miles per hour, the object is to capture the other team’s flag and bring it back to home base.

            If you get hit and the paintball breaks, which it almost always does, splashing you with pink paint, you’re dead and out of the game. “You can really get bruised by ‘em,” someone said.

            “I’ve seen people bleed,” his buddy added.

            “I’m not playing,” James said.

            We boarded the bus and headed to our combat field, getting a safety briefing from our drill instructor on the way. His name was Mambo.

            Really.

            Mambo told us how important it was to wear our safety goggles at all times and promised to kick anyone who removed them out of the game – and not refund their money. “If you get hit in the eye, you’re blind,” Mambo warned.

            “I’m not playing,” James said.

            Mambo then warned us not to shoot anyone if we were closer than 10 feet because “it can cause bleeding.”

            “I’m not playing,” James said.

            Too late: The first war game began…

            James and I, members of the white team, worked out way up the middle of the 10-acre playing field. As we advanced, hiding behind trees, I spotted two members of the yellow team in the thick bushes. Even better, they didn’t see me.

            I snuck up and started firing and they were both covered in pink and very, very dead.

            Then, I heard James yell.

            “Cover me, I see a yellow guy up to the right,” he shouted.

            I covered him as James raced toward the enemy, shooting and dodging behind trees as he ran, going at a surprisingly fast clip. He nailed a yellow guy in the ribs.

            “Follow me,” James yelled, the sweat glistening off his giant forehead and the veins bulging in his pasty-white-neck.

            What choice did I have but to follow our leader?

            James killed another yellow guy and before we knew it, we were a few yards from the enemy flag. While I covered him, James raced out into the open and grabbed the flag.

            We started running.

            “Stay on my left flank,” James ordered. There wasn’t time for him to explain to me what a flank was because…

            An enemy sniper jumped out from behind a tree and a paintball whizzed by James’ head. Another sniper appeared, seemingly out of nowhere. He was 15 feet in front of James and had him clearly in his sights.

            “JAMES!” I screamed…

            You’ll have to read my next column to find out what happens.

July 20, 1997 … Intelligencer

No Soup for You!

            Before I tell you all about the Soup Nazi and his crab bisque and chicken chili, I have an important message for anyone contemplating a bus trip from Doylestown [where we lived and the location of the Intelligencer] to Manhattan: There’s no bathroom on the 8:45 a.m. Trans-Bridge bus!

            I felt like Jerry and George in the parking garage episode.

            Fortunately, the bus pulled into the Port Authority in the nick of time, and, after a quick stop, I walked over to Al Yaganeh’s Soup Kitchen International on the corner of 55th and Eighth and took my place in the long line that kept getting longer. It was the day the final episode of Seinfeld aired and all of New York was in a Jerry, George, Kramer, Elaine and Soup Nazi frenzy.

            “He’s real, he’s really real,” shouted an annoying guy ahead of me in line.

            The Soup Nazi and his soup really are real, and there he was, preparing crab bisque, chicken chili, lentil, mulligatawny, veal goulash, chicken broccoli, gazpacho and borscht.

            I felt like Jerry and Kramer in the Soup Nazi episode.

            Melissa and Anne – two New Yorkers and Soup Nazi regulars – were in front of me and gave me a quick education. “I’m worried,” Melissa said of all the media hype, which included scores of reporters and a crew from the Home Shopping Network. “He could get mad at everything going on and not even open. He’s done that before.”

            “He’ll open,” I said. “He’s selling his soup on the Home Shopping Network tonight and isn’t about to toss aside the thousands of dollars he’ll make.”

            “He’s totally sold out,” Anne said.

            “That’s OK, as long as the soup’s still good,” Melissa said.

            After waiting more than an hour, I was finally at the front of the line.

            I was nervous, afraid I would somehow offend the Soup Nazi and he’d shout, “No soup for you.” I calmed my nerves and, in a slow, steady voice, said: “Small crab bisque, small chicken chili.”

            I handed him a $20, got back $5 – that’s right, it cost $15 for two small soups – and quickly moved all the way to the left and waited for my soup.

            He never even looked at me. But he gave me bread.

            And fruit!

            Clutching my bounty, I headed to Central Park, where I found a place to sit and opened my crab bisque. Jerry was right – this stuff really does make your knees weak. It’s jammed with chunks of succulent crab, and the broth was perfection. The chicken chili was equally magnificent.

            I finished and headed to the Museum of Television & Radio, which was continuously showing the pilot of Seinfeld, which, as all you Seinfeld experts know, was called The Seinfeld Chronicles. I paid the $6 fee to get into the museum, which meant I was basically paying $6 to see a Seinfeld rerun, and headed into the theater.

            As I was walking in, a guy in a postal uniform – I swear – was walking out.

            Newman!

            The pilot was interesting: George had a lot more hair; Kramer had a lot less hair – and he had a dog; Jerry was exactly the same, Elaine wasn’t in it.

            My Seinfeld day done; it was time to head home.

            Guess what? That’s right, no bathroom on the bus. I felt like George in the backwards episode in India.

May 19, 1998 … Intelligencer

            Note: I was a bit of a Seinfeld fanatic back then. OK, I still am. And wrote a few Seinfeld-themed columns. Stay tuned.

Super Bowl Ads

            Another boring Super Bowl blowout has come and gone.

            Even worse, the commercials – the real reason to watch the game – were on the disappointing side this year, ruining my plans to write a column about all the hilarious commercials. The best commercial, by far, was the promo for Everyone Loves Raymond, with the family playing touch football. Raymond’s mom delivered the best hit of the entire evening, the clothesline shot to Deborah’s neck. 

            Ouch!

            Fortunately, the Super Bowl party I attended featured the hilarious running commentary of Michelle (our hostess), Gina (our friend) and, of course, Susan. This may have been Gina’s first Super Bowl party. On the way to Michelle and Bryan’s house, she said to Peter (her husband): “I doubt the Super Bowl will even be on. Maybe we can check the score occasionally.”

            What planet is Gina from?

            Susan: “The Giants need to establish a running game early, otherwise they’ll have to throw the ball and Baltimore will blitz them to death.”

            After a shot of the back of the jersey of a Giant, whose last name is Toomer …

            Gina: “What’s his first name, Benign?”

            He certainly was in this game.

            After a shot of portly Ravens lineman Tony Siragusa, who hasn’t seen 350 pounds – or his lower extremities – in years…

            Gina: “Is that padding or does he have two sets of boobs?”

            After much debate, we couldn’t decide.

            Susan: “The Giants need to spread out their offense and create some space. And they can’t give up on trying to establish the run.”

            After the two-minute warning at the end of the second quarter…

            Michelle: “Great, the game’s almost over.”

            Sorry, Michelle – there’s another half to go.

            Michelle: “Can we play charades at halftime?”

            Bryan, Peter and Steve: “No!”

            Susan: “Collins has to look off his receivers, the d-backs are reading where he’s going.”

            Gina: “Whatever happened to The Refrigerator?”

            Nobody knew.

            Michelle (to Bryan, after he tried to shush her): “We can talk! You don’t need to hear it – just watch it.”

            A little later…

            Gina: “Michelle has three eyelash curlers.”

            Michelle (a bit defensively): “They’re all different.”

            Gina: “I think you have a problem.”

            Michelle: “Is there a group I can join?”

            There’s a minute left in the third quarter and …

            Michelle: “Great, the game’s almost over.”

            Sorry, Michelle – there’s another quarter to go.

            Michelle: “We could have been playing charades this whole time.”

            Susan: “The Ravens defense is too strong for the Giants. They’re wearing them down.”

            Gina: “Who are the Ravens?”

            Uh, the team from Baltimore crushing the team from New York..

            Gina: “Oh.”

            Finally, the game is over…

Michelle: “Now can we play charades now?”

            Bryan, Peter and Steve: “No!”

            As you may have guessed, we were outvoted 3 to 3 and were forced to play a few rounds of charades.

February 4, 2001 … Intelligencer

            Note: Susan may or may not have provided all this astute and expert commentary on the game. I’ll leave it up to you to decide. Those of you who know Susan can probably figure it out.