On Monday (“Festivus!”), I met a couple of friends downtown for happy hour. Because I’m a cheapskate, I parked at a spot off the grid, where there are no parking meters.
When I came back to the car, I found out my “Secret Santa” had left me a lovely present:
“A free upgrade to my car’s air conditioning? You shouldn’t have!”
“And a lovely glass mosaic too! You’re too kind!”
There was absolutely nothing of value visible in the car… and nothing of value in the glove compartment either, as my new friends soon discovered.
(I can’t believe they didn’t want my tire pressure gauge. Or the owner’s manual for a 2009 Honda CR-V. They’ll regret that later.)
Apparently this is the latest m.o. for “window shoppers” (per my new friends in the auto glass replacement business). They don’t have to see anything of value in the car. They just smash a window, quickly fish for goodies, then move on to the next unsuspecting victim. The car thief equivalent of a scratch-off lottery ticket.
So I saved about $9 in parking fees… and am out $250 for a new window. But tbh, it just as easily could’ve happened if I’d parked at a meter. Downtown was pretty much a ghost town that evening. And I’m not going to beat myself up when it’s the would-be thieves who deserve the punishment.
I hope your holiday season wasn’t quite as smashing!
Our “newest” car is 8 years old. Because I’m a cheapskate.
Our second newest was a 2014 VW Passat with nearly 110K miles.
For the past year or so, it’s been chugging oil like it was doing Valvoline keg stands at an Indy 500 frat party. Both the dealer and another VW repair shop told us we had two paths forward:
a. get a new engine (~$10K)
b. keep pouring oil down it’s gullet until we were doing it every week.
(So much for that vaunted German engineering… it’s pretty sad when repair shops say “yeah, that’s what happens with this model Passat at about 90,000 miles.”)
We chose Option B. But recently, it needed about $700 worth of repairs. I’ve been known to throw good money after bad before (never should’ve gotten swept up in that Beanie Baby mania…), but I do have my limits. This was the last straw. Time to dump the chump. But where? The thought of listing it on Facebook Marketplace made me break out in hives – I’m rarely on the Zuckerbook, I barely know how to use FB Messenger, and I didn’t want to spend every waking hour responding to queries. And I hate haggling.
I got on one of those “find out your car’s value” sites (Kelley Blue Book or Edmunds or ???) and plugged in the particulars. Given the car’s present state, it was probably worth about a grand. But the website also offered the opportunity to click a button and set up an instant appraisal with CarMax. I figured I had very little to lose, so I signed up.
Two days later, I was in their Cincinnati location. I sat down with a rep, answered a few questions, their tech took it for a test drive, and 20 minutes later I had an offer: $2,500. American!
I felt like this was the real-life version of Monopoly:
They did the paperwork, I signed over the title, and 10 minutes later I had a check in hand… and even though it was 17 degrees outside, I walked down the block to wait for my son to pick me up, as I was afraid they’d realize I’d sold them a lemon and want their money back. For once, I felt like the used car salesman, pulling one over on an unsuspecting customer.
I know CarMax isn’t in the charity business. I’m sure they’ve got some sort of algorithm that tells them they could sell our old hooptie (or, more likely, individual parts of it) for more than $2.5K. But when you go in hoping to squeeze a grand out of a beater, and wind up with 2.5 times that amount, it feels like winning the lottery. Especially when there was zero hassle, and it took less time than the last oil change.
Oh, and when I got home and was sifting through the detritus that I’d cleaned out of the car before I took it to CarMax, I realized I’d forgotten to remove my Band of Horses CD from the CD player. I called CarMax, they tracked the CD down, and my son picked it up on his way home from work later that week. Rock on!
The guy in the photo above might look like a surly biker dude, but really he’s a sweetheart – one of the kindest folks you’ll ever meet. [photo credit: Anna Stockton]
Hi name is Chuck Cleaver. Yeah, I know, it sounds like the stage name of a wrestling “heel” in the WWE. But that’s his real name. And he’s one of the best songwriters in the WWW – the Whole Wide World.
Five Saturdays ago, Chuck and Lisa Walker, his fellow songwriter and co-leader of the band Wussy, played a house concert at our house.
It was amazing. Spectacular, in a low-key way. Spine-tinglingly beautiful. They did a lot of songs from their upcoming album. A lot of those songs are tributes to… remembrances of… mournings for… their dear friend and fellow Wussy bandmate John Erhardt, who passed away a few years ago. John also was Chuck’s bandmate in his pre-Wussy band, The Ass Ponys. All those years spent in a van, traveling from gig to gig, turned them into more brothers than bandmates.
Three Saturdays later, Chuck and Lisa and their bandmates played a sold-out show at a local venue. It was only their second time performing as a full band since John passed away.
The love from the audience — and the band’s appreciation of that love — were palpable. Once again, they played several songs from the new album, the one for John. (He’s featured in the cover artwork, and his beautiful pedal steel work is on a couple of tracks.)
“It’s very definitely a record for John,” Cleaver says. “It’s a mourning record. We had to make it.”
The album had its official release a week ago Friday… and is amazing (as are all the other Wussy releases… as Jason Cohen said in his article linked above “There’s no middle ground with Wussy: They are either one of your very favorite bands or you just haven’t heard them yet.” I’m firmly in the former camp.)
That record-release Friday should’ve been a different type of release as well: a day of joy… celebration.
But on the Tuesday between their sold-out show and the Friday that their new album came out, Randy Cheek — Chuck’s longtime bandmate in the Ass Ponys — passed away.
I know life is a series of peaks and valleys. But my heart aches for Chuck, who was in the valley so long after losing John, and now, on the verge of a peak moment, got gut-punched back down into another valley. It’s not fair. And it sucks.
“Time is an assassin, when it finally tracks you down
You can’t tiptoe around it or conveniently skip town
So try to face it screaming and beating on your chest
So when it drags you to wherever, you know you did your best
Sure as the sun… ”
— “Sure as the Sun” from Wussy’s new album Cincinnati Ohio
I got to know Randy a tad, during my 97X radio days. He was exactly as Chuck described him: sweet, kind, truly hilarious.
It was nice to see Randy, John, Dave and Chuck back on stage together at the Ass Ponys reunion shows back in 2015. (Two nights – you’re damn right I went to both shows.)
(Jason Cohen’s Cincinnati Magazine article about those reunion shows is here.)
I took Chuck’s advice and cranked up this song that Randy wrote.
Playing Ass Ponys and Wussy tunes… it won’t bring John and Randy back, but it keeps them in our hearts. That’ll have to do.
Dear Friends Mysterious doorway Future life For better for worse Life’s blessings In heaven we know Our own glories
Glories of the sacred In the wonder days The wonder gifts The wonder story
In the quiet moments of reflection, let us honor Randall’s memory by embracing the beauty of each fleeting moment, knowing that his spirit resides in the eternal tapestry of existence, forever woven into the fabric of our hearts.
Growing up in Arkansas, I had no geographic affinity for any professional sports teams. I was free to pick and choose my favorites based on such key criteria (for an 8-year-old) as “cool helmets” (hello Oakland Raiders) and “unique court design” (Boston Celtics). In those prehistoric times, the only exposure to televised baseball was the NBC’s Saturday afternoon “Game of the Week” with broadcasters Curt Gowdy and Tony Kubek.
The Cincinnati Reds were on the Game of the Week quite often back then — it was the era of the Big Red Machine — and I fell head over hillbilly boots for Joe Morgan, Johnny Bench, Tony Perez, Davey Concepcion…
But my favorite player by far was Pete Rose. A gritty grinder, tough as nails. “Charlie Hustle.” I remember when he was Sports Illustrated’s Sportsman of the Year.
The accompanying article in SI mentioned how Pete was so obsessed with getting better at the game that he had a satellite dish installed at his house so he could study opposing pitchers. (With the gift of hindsight, we now know the satellite TV was just a way for him to track his bets.)
My friend Ned and I were at Riverfront Stadium in September of 1985 when Pete broke Ty Cobb’s record.
All hail the new Hit King!
Less than a year later, I got my first real job, working in the marketing department at Turfway Park, a thoroughbred racetrack in Northern Kentucky. Imagine my sheer elation when Pete Rose showed up in the press box where I worked. The 8-year-old inside me was doing cartwheels: “OhmygawditsPete! Pete! Right here! Be cool! Don’t say anything stupid…”
My joy lasted about as long as a six-furlong race. I realized Pete was a bit of an entitled jerk, and clearly hooked on gambling. My bosses allowed him and his cronies (muscle-headed butt kissers – and as we later found out, Pete’s errand boys for booking his bets) and their pneumatic girlfriends/spouses to hang out in the press box, with free food and beverages, because they were really good at increasing the track’s daily receipts. Finally, their loud, boorish behavior got to be too much for those of us trying to earn a living at the track the hard way, so management moved them to another smaller spot (“The Rose Room”) adjacent to the press box. (We could still hear them hooting and hollering, but it was muffled.)
A few years later, Pete was back on the cover of Sports Illustrated, but for a totally different reason:
I didn’t need the results of the official MLB investigation. There was NO doubt in my mind that Pete bet on baseball while he was the manager of the Reds.
“Never meet your heroes” is the old adage, and in this case it certainly was true. Pete was always unabashedly, and unapologetically, Pete, for better or for worse. And it was usually worse. If he could’ve just walked away from the seamy underbelly of sports, he might’ve earned a bit of forgiveness from both MLB and the general public. But that same hard-nosed persistence that made him such a tough out on the field worked against him off it. He set up camp at every casino and race track in the country, selling autographs so he could wager that money right back to his hosts.
Yes, as countless others have already mentioned, now MLB is in cahoots with the gambling that was once so verboten.
But rules are rules, and Pete broke them, and lied about breaking them… he only came “clean” when it helped him sell more books.
I DO think Pete belongs in the Hall of Fame for his feats on the field. This Substack post from Mark Whicker does a nice job profiling a warts-and-all version of Pete. Money quote:
The baseball Hall needs Rose the way the country music Hall needs George Jones or the chess Hall needs Bobby Fischer. It’s not the Hall of Well-Adjusted People. It should be the place where players of impact are recognized. There is no question that baseball was a brighter, richer place because Pete Rose was at its core, or that people who didn’t know a slider from a playground slide knew who Rose was, and that if we all loved what we did the same way Rose loved the game, our national GDP would be unmeasurable.
R.I.P. Charlie Hustle. I’ll always admire your baseball skills, but your off-the-field antics took the bloom off the Rose.
One year ago today, we lost our dear friend Ned. (The “we” in this case includes the countless people Ned befriended during his too-short time on earth.)
I’m reposting my tribute to Ned from last October below. And adding a few more thoughts:
Be kind to everyone you meet, from the cashier at the supermarket on up, like Ned was.
Be caring, like Ned was. Ask others how they are doing.
Be faithful, like Ned was. A devoted husband, a proud parent, and a true-blue friend.
Be open to adventure, like Ned was.
If we could all be a bit more like Ned, the world would be a much better place. And to those of us who were lucky enough to know Ned, our part of the world IS a better place than it was before he came into our lives.
Photographs and Memories (from oct. 2023)
Back in my college days, if we needed someone to get swung around like a helicopter blade during a party, Ned was there.
If we needed someone to dress up like an elf, Ned was there.
Getting handcuffed to a loft? Ned was there.
Beer bongs? Ned was there.
For all of our Spring break adventures, Ned was there.
If we needed someone to man the grill, Ned was there.
At all those parties — in the dorm rooms, in the quad, and at the bars — Ned was there.
Whenever you needed a friend, Ned was there.
After college, when some folks from our gang got married, Ned was there.
At all the memorable moments over the past 40 years , Ned was there. Always.
Then, this past Monday, out of the blue, Ned was no longer there.
Suddenly — You were gone From all the lives You left your mark upon
Ned had a stroke back in May of 2020 – it caused all sorts of health complications. But his departure still came as a shock. Now he’s in another “there” and we’re still here.
Tried to believe But you know it’s no good This is something That just can’t be understood
Every one of us has a special place in our heart for the guy who was good-natured, sweet, kind, caring, smart, attentive, funny… and always up for a good time. Ned is still there. He always will be.
[Sorry I haven’t posted in a while. The man’s been keeping me down. – Ed.]
We did it!
We raised $1,400 for cancer research and care in Greater Cincinnati.
Sure, I was the one pedaling 24 miles in the Ride Cincinnati fundraiser. But I had lots of help.
[Actually I was out of town when the official event took place, but I did my ride the next day, and rode 25 miles, since my supporters went the extra mile for me.]
I had help from every single person who donated.
And my friends Phil and Suzie joined me on the 25-mile ride, which made it a heck of a lot easier and more enjoyable.
My inspiration and motivation was my friend John (a.k.a. “LJ”) who had a cancerous brain tumor removed back in May. Phil and Suzie have known John and his wife Patty since back in our college days, when Suzie and Patty were kicking butt as part of Xavier’s volleyball team.
We’re all connected. Not just John and Patty and Phil and Suzie and me and my donors… everyone has been impacted by cancer. Personally, or within their family, or within their social circle.
Just spokes on a big wheel – with love as the hub.
You done said…