Get My Fash On

"I'm too sexy for Milan, too sexy for Milan, New York or Japan..."
Enter the syncopated drum machine here, and you have the one-hit wonder Right Said Fred's 1991 smash, that still finds its way onto radio playlists, much to my chagrin.
It's also been the anthem for just about every fashion model on the planet.
For the past several years, I've modeled for an annual fashion show fundraiser for St. Barnabas Charities.   They ask for local celebrities to model clothes, and I was one of the "lucky" ones some time ago, and have done it ever since.
I enjoy it.  Who doesn't enjoy wearing clothes they can't really afford, if only for a moment?
I started wearing two outfits, then three as the years progressed.
The agenda changes each year.
Most of the same models participate, like me.  And we always try to find a way to be more efficient with our clothes-changing, only to see things change once again.
When we're out on the 'runway', we have literally SECONDS to change into our next outfit, if we're modeling another one.
The first outfits are usually casual, with the second or third becoming more formal.
When we model the first outfits, the audience is given a substantial bio on each one of us, in addition to the wardrobe we're modeling.  What we do for a living, how long we've done the fashion show, family and kids, even hobbies and interests.
Naturally, the powers-that-be like to keep the best for last.  As in, the more formal outfits as the very last ones we put on.
I said before that we have seconds to change into our next outfit.  Cut that amount in less than half if you're putting on a tuxedo.  It's the most time-consuming outfit to wear...so many accessories.
This year, I was pretty impressed with my outfits.
Especially the suit and the tuxedo.
You know why?
Because I learned I could run in them.
You have to.
I barely have my pants up on the suit when the knock comes on the dressing room door.
"Ken, we need you...you're on in a minute."
What the what?
I knotted my tie while walking (OK, running), and just had the other shoe tied when my cue came.
Now I understand why so many models fall on the runway.
They don't have enough time to get dressed, and then not enough time to maintain balance.
I'm so glad I don't do it for a living.


NEXT WEEK:   Sandy Beach

Zombie Apocolypse

I'm not a scary movie guy.
Even George Romero's "Night of the Living Dead", with its low-grade film quality and antiquated special effects, I still find off-putting.
But since it was filmed in Butler County, where I made my home, it still has a place in the massive shelf in our family room that stores our DVD collection.
And we have a ton of them.
Recently, my wife brought home a DVD of the first season of "The Walking Dead" on AMC.
I don't like gory.  The closest I'll get to gory on a recurring basis is watching old re-runs of the ABC gothic soap opera "Dark Shadows".
But I thought I'd give "Dead" a chance.
I didn't like the first episode.
But then after Margie watched an episode or two without me, I found myself curious as to what happened next.
I couldn't imagine a show like this as sustainable.
In the words of Major Lance (for you oldies fans), I was born with a curious mind.
So I plopped down on the couch next to her earlier this week (after putting the kid to bed of course), and went back to watching.
The backstory has been slow in coming about, as to how this happened.  Nonetheless, I enjoy seeing mankind's resourcefulness in dealing with a situation like this.
And with my curious mind, I somehow manage to find plot holes or inaccuracies here and there.
Like speed.
I asked Margie how a zombie, who walks with a limp and at a very slow pace, is somehow able to run at great speed in a forest?
Especially being partially devoured by one of their own before they 'come back' as the undead.
And did nobody among our most intelligent military people think of the benefits of a flame-thrower?
It was my understanding that these beings were highly flammable.  When one catches fire, isn't that an incentive for them to consider an alternate plan?
Obviously the writers knew they were treading a line when they put this show together.  I can see how a typical meeting would go.
"We don't want to go too Romero on this," one would say.
Because George scared the hell out of us on a shoestring budget in 1968 that's become a cult classic, despite  virtually no promotion dollars and no big-name actors other than Pittsburgh celebs.
In case you missed it, they were Bill Cardille (TV reporter) of WPXI, and Dave James (face-grabbing zombie), then of KQV, later at KDKA.
The baby-boomers had "Night of the Living Dead".  Could this be the next generation's comparison?
One thing I am sure of is this:
The scary movie has endured since the 1920s.
And it will as long as people have that thrill for the horror.
In the meantime, pass the popcorn.


NEXT WEEK:  Get Your Fash On

Family Matters...Part II

You'll recall I wrote about my cousin Tina's passing in last week's column.
I wrote mostly about the kind of person she was.
But I didn't truly reflect on that until Sunday, September 9, 2012.
Much like every Sunday, I was tapping away at my computer keyboard in my office at the radio station where I work.  I work a Sunday through Thursday work week, with Fridays and Saturdays off.
It was about 8:30 in the morning, and I was in the middle of typing a news story into our website portal when  I heard my cell phone ring.
I gazed at the caller ID.  It was my Dad's number.
Right away I knew something was amiss.
Number one, my dad's not really a phone guy.  Two, he returns calls, but doesn't necessarily initiate a phone conversation.  Then there was the hour at hand.
Immediately, I thought..."someone died."
My mind immediately flashed to my 92-year-old grandmother.  My last surviving grandparent.
She's survived two mild strokes, and aside from occasional forgetfulness, she's still very much well within her right frame of mind.
She still lives in the same house she raised her family in since 1955.  She still cooks for whomever stops over that happens to be hungry.
Fully independent.  But at 92, anything can happen.
Especially after she said on more than one occasion that she was 'ready to go'.  That was after my grandfather's passing in December of 2006.
But it wasn't Grandma.
"Tina passed away last night," my dad said.
My jaw dropped.  But I kept a firm grip on that phone as he gave me the details.
Nothing could have prepared me for that one.
Tina had survived ongoing health problems since first being diagnosed with kidney failure at the age of seven.
Once she survived her teen years, everyone relaxed a bit.
After all, it was Tina.
She was an example of "what doesn't kill you makes you stronger."
And strong she was.
But as she was approaching 40, the hospital visits were getting to be more frequent.  Middle age, I mused.
I somehow knew she wasn't going to live a full chronological life as the rest of us knew it.
45 or 50, I thought.
Never in a million years would I have dreamed that she would have left this world at 37.
The injustice of it all began to wash over me.
How does someone who used her ill health as a motivator to try harder than everyone else have to die, and those who throw away opportunity after opportunity to do better get to live?
I'm sure it was running through my Aunt Bev's mind as she wept over her daughter's lifeless body in the viewing room at the funeral home, with a strangled 'why' between stifled sobs.
That's when I began to remember my faith.
Our final rewards are not found on this earth.
We were not meant to inhabit this world forever.

"The man who loves his life will lose it, while the man who hates his life in this world will keep it for eternal life."  John 12:25

Now Tina no longer has to worry about things like dialysis, doctors, hospitals, frequent medications or anything else slowing her down.
I began to think of how Tina left this world.
My grandpa might have come to get her.
And she might have protested at first...at the thought of leaving everyone behind.
"They'll be OK, Tina," is what Grandpa would say.
And that would be enough for her.
I like to think of them sitting on a front porch like the one at my grandparents' home, with Grandpa still in his tank top shirt with his leather flyswatter in his hand.  Woe to any insect that came near him.
Or maybe she's reunited with Uncles Henry and Ed and cousin Joey at a pig roast at a camp just like Henry had in Pennsylvania when he came 'down' from Michigan.
Maybe Uncle Bill will be there too...and she'll say "Don't I know you?"
She was five when he died.
Then Uncle Frank.  He'll greet her with his usual stock line:  "So what's the good word?"
And maybe she's enjoying a beer or a shot with them all without worrying about 'paying for it later', and in a much more severe way than we would.
After the funeral, I took a gamble and told her brother's wife that she was going to give God a run for his money.  The gamble paid off...we were both able to laugh, as were a few others.
And before that, as we filed past her body, and while others were saying goodbye, I could think of only one thing to say:
I managed a slight smile through my still-hydrating eyes as I said "Give 'em hell, Tina."
And I felt her behind my back saying "Oh, don't you worry about that."
Because we know she will.
She wouldn't have it any other way.
After all, someone's gotta keep those other angels on their toes.


NEXT WEEK:   Adventures in Zombieland

Family Matters

You're probably wondering about the reason behind my unannounced 'hiatus' from my column last month, for those of you willing to give a few minutes of your time each Sunday to what it is I have to say.
An upcoming vacation, our daughter's beginning of preschool, and a sudden death in the family, are life changes that, when all happening simultaneously, can require the most seasoned journalist to need time to regroup.
The death in the family was the big one.
My cousin Tina had been battling kidney disease since the age of seven.  The daughter and youngest child of my father's younger brother Bob and his wife Bev, she had been used to fighting to live for almost her entire life.
Two kidney transplants still did little to restore the independence that we all too often take for granted.  Having the strong will of Uncle Bob, she didn't allow her illnesses to stop her from living.
To those of us who knew her, she was a fighter who never backed down from a challenge and if told she couldn't do something she would do it with all the passion she had for the sake of proving that person wrong.
And most often, she did.  Even if it meant putting her own health at risk.
To those who didn't know her, she might have been perceived as someone characterized with a five-letter word for a female dog that rhymes with 'pitch'.
Someone once told me that it's an acronym that means Babe In Total Control of Herself.
And Tina was just that.
Because I did know her.
She was very much in control of her own life.  She made some choices in life that put her health in jeopardy, but she was someone determined to live her life to the fullest.
She didn't just survive her illness for many years, she also survived a failed marriage, and despite her health challenges, she managed to find happiness the second time around with Mike.
I would later learn that Mike is a U.S. Marine.  He has been honorably discharged, but as all Marines know, "Semper Fi".  Once a Marine, always a Marine.
It would take that level of strength to endure her challenges with her.
He went into their marriage knowing of her poor health, the fact that children together would be impossible, if not potentially deadly, and that she might not live a full life as we knew it.
Tina had a couple 'close calls' during her teen years, and even became a Make-A-Wish kid.  She received an above-ground swimming pool that year.
But she didn't 'milk' her health problems for the sake of taking advantage.
And no one dared to complain about a headache or bad back in her presence.  I can still see her rolling her eyes and thinking to herself how she wished that's all she had.
Her often-brutal honesty was one of her defining characteristics.  But we all took it in stride.
I often do modeling for a fashion show to raise money for a personal care home concern in Pittsburgh's North Hills.  I was talking about it with my Aunt Bev at a family function one year and Tina overheard us.
"You were in a fashion show?  Their standards must be pretty low."
Then she walked away.  I couldn't help but raise my eyebrows and smile, turning to Aunt Bev.
Bev said "if she were any other way, you'd think there's something wrong" with a laugh.
Very true.  We still loved her nonetheless.
One week before she died, my wife and I, along with our three-year-old daughter, went to Bob and Bev's for a cookout.  Tina was there with her new puppy.  Having never met Savannah before, she approached her and put the little dog in Savannah's arms.
"Work on your parents," Tina said pointedly to Savannah.  "Get them to buy you a dog!"
And Tina knew a pet was not part of our plans.  But that didn't stop her.
"I don't really like little kids," Tina told us later, "but she's adorable."
She then walked off, but then turned around.
"She takes after her mom," she added.
And there it is.
Being in an ego-driven profession such as radio, she was helping me keep mine in check.
Then it came time to leave.
"Seriously," she stage-whispered to Savannah, "tell them you want a dog!"
Then the call came one week later.


NEXT WEEK:  Part II

Home is Where...Part III

We left off with my near-death experience in the attic, as I felt the fumes from the silicon caulking gradually closing up my sinuses.
OK, maybe that's a little far-fetched.
And we did wait for the rain to come.
It did...and so did water through the leak.
All else failed, so I called Phil.
He was up on the roof for about five minutes if that.
It looked like the water might have come through the Gutter Helmet, he said.
More rain fell.  Each time I shimmied up to the attic to check.
So far so good each time.
There are reasons why Handyman Phil does what he does, and why I do what I do.
I don't have ego problems.  I know when I'm licked.
But now that problem was done and over with.
That way, I could concentrate on renovating the half-bath.
Yeah I know, quit laughing.
It didn't have to be perfect, my wife insisted.  No one was going to see it other than us.
But I kind of wanted it to be PRETTY perfect.  I was thinking future resale value (not that we're planning to move), and I wanted to try and rival the performance of a pro if I could do it.
I wanted to keep it as simple as I could.
New sink, new toilet, new lights, and trim pieces.  Shouldn't be too hard.
We had to forego the medicine cabinet after we determined that we couldn't find one that was an exact replacement for our old one.
So we cleaned up the old medicine cabinet and re-used it.  
After all was said and done, everything worked, save for a slight drip in the sink drain, and all was good for hopefully, the next 20 years.
Hopefully longer.
The toilet and sink I removed had its date of manufacture cast into it.  The year...1957.
55 years of service.  That ain't bad.
Especially when the house was built in 1952.
And by the time my daughter grows up, she'll probably be making her own plans on what to do with the house if she wants to buy it.
That'll be just fine with me.
I still remember the years I spent at my paternal grandparents' home, which they had moved into in 1955.  My grandmother still lives there today, after my grandfather had passed six years ago.
It was like a second home to me.
I could go there at anytime.  Just walk in.  No appointment necessary.
Except on Mondays, when Grandma did her hair, and from 3 to 4pm weekdays, because that's when her 'story' (Guiding Light) was on TV.
Looking at it today, one can probably see things it needs.
A dishwasher.
Some kitchen cabinetry updates.
An upgrade to a dual-basin sink.
Replacing the wood paneling that's through most of the ground floor.
Painting the bedrooms.
New carpeting.
Central air.
Cable TV capability.
But I like it the way it is.
Much of my life and that of my family is wrapped up in that old house.  The same house that came with only two electrical outlets when it was first built.  Then grandpa installed several more.
"There used to be two plugs in this whole place," he'd say.  "There's more than 200 now!"
Grandpa exaggerates a little, but that's just fine.
Because it's still a home, nonetheless.
Plugs be damned.


NEXT WEEK:  I'll Explain Later

Home is where...Part II

With my wife going out of town with her best friend and college roommate for the weekend, and an offer by her family to take care of our daughter, it seemed to be the perfect opportunity to get some things done around the house.
And I had a lot to do.
I had written about the half-bath ceiling problem in my last column.  My wife suggested that if we're going to repair the ceiling, why don't we just remodel it while we're at it?
Not having ever done this before, I thought if she has faith in my abilities, why shouldn't I likewise.
This was the biggest of my home improvement project list that I intended to tackle.
Another one was a 70-foot red oak tree that had fallen in our backyard after a rash of heavy rains had uprooted it.  After no timber brokers wanted to take it (they won't come out for less than about half a dozen trees), it's fallen upon me (pardon the pun) to cut it up.
Half-bath.  Tree.  Pruning the walnut tree in the back yard.  Fixing a leak in the ceiling above the half-bath.  Oh, three loads of laundry needed doing too.
The roof project was to say the least, interesting.
After caulking a leak seam in the attic, I saw there was still dripping afterwards.  I told my dad about it and how difficult it was to access the area.
"Why not get it from the outside," he said.
Uh, I am your son, and you've obviously forgotten I have acrophobia.
But I wasn't going to verbalize those thoughts to a former cop and U.S. Army drill sergeant who built his own home.
So I sucked it up and went up on the roof.
I could find no visible place where water could come in easily.  The shingles were tight against the roof, and there were no signs of breakage.
However, I did see a couple of small areas on the roof that looked like they had been treated with rubber roof caulking.  Armed with my own caulk gun, I re-treated those areas, including a so-called 'no caulk' bit of flashing surrounding the attic vent pipe.  I was bound and determined not to let water get into this house.
Even the water well was shaking with fear.
But I was proud of myself.  I survived my fears of a twenty-foot fall and got down from the ladder without getting hurt.
Then into the attic I went, with my caulk gun, but with some new ammunition.
Silicon caulk...the same stuff I used before.
But I done used my noodle!  I had a system in place this time!
Take some netting and put it across the area to repair.  Then apply the caulk to a Bondo putty scraper and apply it to the repair area.
I had forgotten to consider the fact that I was doing this on a day when it was pushing 90 degrees outside, and it was much hotter in the attic.  Can you see where this is going?
If not, I'll press on.
I felt like I was breathing vinegar.  I had forgotten to consider the dangers of vapor on a hot day in an even hotter attic.
Uh-oh.
Not even the attic fan going at full tilt could have aired this out.
I had just made it to the attic opening before I thought I was going to pass out.
Now wait for the rain...


NEXT WEEK:  Yes, there is a Part III!

Home is where...

...you work the hardest on your day off from your regular job.
My wife brought this to my attention one day a few years ago.
It's true.  It seems like we work harder on the weekends than we do during the week.
Not that we don't do our jobs at our jobs.
Both of us work in offices, and for the most part, do our work at PCs, with occasional trips out of the office on work-related business.
At home, our duties are much more physical.
Managing a three-year-old daughter.  Keeping the house in decent shape.  Washing the mound of laundry that never seems to end.  Running around on errands to do the things we don't have time for during the week.
Keeping the house in decent shape is the big one.
Sometimes I absolutely hate being a homeowner.  Maintenance is one thing that never seems to end.
The grass needs cut.  Hedges need trimmed.  There's a leak in the roof.  Something needs done about that little knuckle of land between the rear sidewalk and the garage.  That vine needs trimmed back from the chimney.  Don't forget the one going up the other side of the house too.  The walnut tree behind the house needs pruning before those branches touching the roof lift the shingles.  The electric meter socket is slowly disintegrating.  Are we ever going to get the basement remodeled?  The water softener needs new 'stuff' in it.
The kid's play set needs stained.  The jambs on the garage doors need painted.  Oh, why is the garage door opener making that clunking noise, honey?
By my own admission, I'm not particularly handy around the house.  I do try to make an effort though.
But I always tell my wife that I don't guarantee success.
We had an episode where the ceiling over our half-bath was leaking until finally wearing a hole.  Not being familiar with the layout of my house (no longer the case), I was unable to find its source.
We got the ceiling re-done.  Then the leak started back up.
I was told by the previous homeowner that the attic could be accessed in the smaller bedroom.  I couldn't find it before.  My latent rage over this lack of control over such a thing finally got the best of me and I went on a quest, more than ever determined to find it.
I yanked open both closet doors, beating on the ceiling in the first one until I was sure I broke my hand.  No luck.  Then I went to the second one and beat even harder.  I felt something give way that didn't quite feel like a hole caused by my own fist.
It was an access panel.  Eureka!
After icing my hand, I went up to the attic and to the area where the leak was believed to have begun.
I saw where it was situated.  Wait till the next rain.
Then it came.  Back to the attic.
Found it.  And it was a doozy.
VERY difficult to get to.
Got some silicone caulk and smeared it into the leak seam.  Still a leak.
I shoved a board under where the drip was just to get through the rainstorm.
My wife was going out of town for the weekend for the annual trip to Chicago with her college roommate and best friend.  With my brother-in-law's family and my in-laws taking my daughter off my hands for a bit, it was a good time to get some of these things done.
Little did I know that this would be an adventure unto itself.


NEXT WEEK:  Part II