Be a Game-Show-style Contestant (Day 1)

Remember when your boss said, “You should ask for a raise?” Or your friend reminisced, “How great was that Eagles Super Bowl victory celebration?”

No? I can relate. Where I work, no one ever asks the unimaginable. Until . . . .

I saw a rainbow-colored unicorn of an e-mail the other day. If only the sender knew her audience.

A very nice public relations person wanted someone to be a contestant in a local “Supermarket Sweep”-style competition, where members of the media run around a supermarket to collect food for charity.

They were looking for two people from our company to push the limits of stupidity and stupidity wouldn’t push back.

That’s the only fight I can win.

First job: finding someone else on staff to be a fool. Consider your workplace: yeah, it was that easy at mine, too.

Our entertainment social media guru Grace Wilson was glad I signed on, but thought it’d be great if we got a “name” staffer. Meaning someone people might know. And like.

She said it four or five times as we searched but it stopped hurting like stepping on a Lego piece at midnight in the dark after the fourth time. That’s when I came up with “names” I wanted to call Grace.

We stalked entertainment writer David Lee Simmons and he agreed just so we would go away. Kinda reminds me of my dating years.

So it’s Game On! The event is next Thursday, so I begin training today to be the best shopper since H.I. in “Raising Arizona": “I’ll be taking these Huggies and whatever cash ya got. . . . Better hurry up, I’m in dutch with the wife.”

Speaking of Linda, I got her to sign on as our team’s videographer for the event. I figure the video will be handy so I can show the doctor exactly how I tore my ACL again.

Not surprisingly, it wouldn't be the dumbest way I've hurt myself. I jumped off a second-story motel walkway and broke my leg when I was 7 so my brother Paul couldn't tag me when we were playing "It."

Stupid Paul didn't think I was smart enough to do it.

Be a Tree (Part 2)

Next, I went to Pelican Park, the hub of all sports activity in our community. Though on a Wednesday afternoon it’s as empty as Charlie Brown’s mailbox on Valentine’s Day. I planted myself near a white birdhouse and waited.

I didn’t really want a bird landing on me, so I practiced a plan if one approached. I’d drop: If a tree fall falls and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound? Yes, and the sound is “Ouch!”

Off to the Northlake Nature Center, which I discovered is the unofficial “Squirrel Capital of America.” I did not want to be climbed by a tree hugger yet. Or ever.

In search of the perfect spot to be tree-mendous (Editor’s note: Please stop!!!), I passed a guy walking alone on the trail. Here’s the thing: It makes sense why I'm here. To be a tree. But why is someone walking alone in the woods on a Wednesday afternoon? How weird.

The constant sounds of the woods (it’s squirrels, right?) and the “Death is imminent” sign warning about alligators (“Don’t feed the alligators”), remind me that I’m lunch to something lurking nearby.

The only calming elements are the stones throughout the woods that name my fellow trees. I think the Tree Naming Committee members were one-upping each other to be more stupid with each name.

Here’s a mix of real tree names and made-up Frat Boy nicknames. Can you tell the difference?

Jenkins Wiggle
Fetterbush Swamp Dog Hobble
Button Bush
Ogre
Fanleaf Hawthorn
Grounded Leaf
Elder Fern
Horse Sugar
Clover Crush
Elderberry

(Here are the Frat Boy names, meaning everything else is oddly real: Jenkins Wiggle, Ogre, Grounded Leaf and Elder Fern. Give yourself two frequent flier miles if you got everything right.)

I’m clearly a tree in CrazyLand, so I figured my name should be “Gator Bait Delicioso,” and wanted to leave before they began filming "SquirrelaGator" and I became victim No 1.

So I briefly set my roots down just off the Eagle Trail path and waited for nature to take its course, knowing that critters would overrun me any minute. Squirrels and snakes and bugs, oh my. (I’m on a “Wizard of Oz” theme, I guess—that’d make me the brainless Scarecrow.)

In this environment, I decided to be an intimidating tree to counter my nerves, so I extended my branches to the heavens and snarled. I’m sure the ants were terrified.

As I left the park/Haunted Woods of Doom, a few things were confirmed. I am NOT an outdoors guy. And I feel a whole lot braver in that park when I'm with Linda. I can out-run her when nature attacks.

A street sign on the drive home offered the equivalent of nuts to squirrels, Roach meat to gators, and, well, trees to dogs: Mandeville Middle School. Daniel’s school.

(Cue the Barry White voice) Ohhhh, yeahhhh.

Dare I be a tree outside of Daniel’s classroom? What parent doesn’t have the same thought?

Wheel keeps wanting to turn . . . must fight the urge . . . Daniel would be so humiliated . . . that’s not helping fight the urge . . .

I must be more sensitive now that I’m a tree, but I couldn’t do it. I think I sprained my wrist resisting the desire, but that’s a small price to pay for having a son look up to his Tree-Dad.

That didn’t stop me from rallying his neighborhood friends to finalize my Tree Day. I wanted to be a tree with a tire hanging from a rope on a branch so kids could fire a football through it. Dan Marino became a legend that way.

Except I didn’t have a rope. Or a tire. And I wasn’t a tree, if you want to be literal. I think I just made Dan Marino cry.

So Daniel, Luke, Dominic, Brennan and Tree-Dad scoured the garage for options. Linda’s gardening hat was both rope and target/tire. Then I started listening to the kids. My mistake.

Dominic: “Why are we doing this?”

Me: “Because I’m going to be a tree.”

Dominic: “Oh.”

Luke: “Can we swing from you?”

Daniel: “Can we climb you?”

Luke: “Can we chop you down?”

I kept an eye on Luke as we walked to the backyard and he kept an eye on the sharper items in our garage. I was relieved when he looked at me and said, “This looks like a sturdy kind of tree.”

Should I have been insulted? Or was that the highlight of my day?

Be a Tree (Part 1)

When you decide to be a tree for a day, you’re going to hear a comment or two. But not the obvious questions: “Why not be a log?” Or, “What do you have against shrubs?”

No, I received less likely questions, such as, “You’re not going to be weird, are you?” Or “Why are you doing this?”

You just gotta be free to be a tree and remember it’s important in life to branch out. (Editor’s note: We’re against that pun, and, well, all of the ones headed your way. You’re “saps” for continuing on.) (Writer’s note: Really???)

I drove off in search of places to be a tree. First stop: The walking path along Lake Pontchartrain, among the majestic Southern Oaks dripping with Spanish Moss. I found a perfect trio of tree partners: an ancient oak and a pair of newish palm trees, with a lake view and the New Orleans skyline in the distance.

Good neighbors matter, at least that’s what mine say before they move away.

To blend in, I gathered some of the grey-beard-looking moss from the ground and draped it over my shoulders. I grabbed a few branches from the ground, too, and I challenge anyone to tell which one of us wasn’t a tree.

The only difference was the oak tree kept dropping acorns. (The palm trees were kinda antisocial and didn’t bring much to the party.) So to fit in, I dropped my keys. The oak dropped a few more acorns.

The game of chicken was on and the oak wasn’t giving in. He kept throwing acorns, so after the keys, I reached for my credit cards to make it rain and prove I was all-in.

A minivan pulled up nearby before it got ugly. More than 30 cars had gone by while I was a tree, but I was facing the lake so, while I couldn’t tell, I’m sure they couldn’t distinguish one tree from another.

A mother of two and her mom exited the minivan and started walking our way. Now, of course, the oak was on its best behavior and holding its acorns. Oaks are such phonies.

Anyway, the four were headed to the play area nearby and approached us trees cautiously. Who wouldn’t? A few minutes ago, the oak was firing projectiles like a Wild West gunslinger.

I put them at ease by saying, “Hi,” just so they knew I wasn’t a grasping “Wizard of Oz” tree. I asked the mom if she’d take a picture, and as I handed her my phone, she said, “Do you want to be near the other trees?”

“Other.” She knew I was a tree! She understood me. Though she did pull her daughters closer to her as she walked away.

That was enough, so it was time to “leaf” for a new spot. (Editor’s note: We warned you.)

"Meet the Pets"

Sunday morning interview shows, such as long-running “Meet the Press,” are staples of American television. I’ve been to a Staples. So obviously we have a lot in common.

That’s why I sat down with my own interview panel, which I’ll call “Meet the Pets,” a semi-regular occurrence now that I’ve jump-started the blog again. My experts will serve as a checks-and-balance counterpoint to keep me in line.

My crew is similar to the Sunday morning show “experts,” in that they take up physical space on Earth and  . . . well, that’ll have to be enough. Today’s panel on “Meet the Pets”: Curious George, Franklin the turtle, and Puppy, Daniel’s almost decade-long stuffed animal friend, though Daniel has forsaken him for a while now.

That may explain Puppy’s bitterness these days.

Puppy: “You’re really pushing yourself to the limits these days, huh? Four posts in two weeks—slow down, there, big fella.”

Franklin: “And he said he’d do a fifth story about being a judge, but I believe we’re still waiting on that one, aren’t we?”

Me: “Okay, well you are. I got tied up, and, I mean, give me a break, I’m just getting started.”

Curious George: “Yeah, give him a chance. I mean, his wife just bought a bunch of bananas—how bad can he be?”

Puppy: “If he thinks he can be a judge, then so can I. I’m the Russian judge: I give you a 2.7 out of 10 so far.”

Me: “Now, hold on guys, this isn’t supposed to be an attack on me. You’re supposed to ask legitimate questions, you know, keep me focused in a constructive way.”

Puppy: “Okay, let’s see. You ate potato chips in one “demanding” story, made fun of sweet people named Grammy and Pappy in another, and let your Facebook friends be the funny ones and do all the work in a third.”

Curious George: “Now I’ll stick up for John on that one. By the way—you gonna share those bananas any time soon, JR? Anyway, you guys don’t get it; ya gotta let other people be the stars. The Man in the Yellow Hat makes me. He’s a grown man who lives with a monkey. That gives me free rein to do anything when you work with someone so clueless. Not saying you’re 100 percent clueless, John, just, well, you know.”

Me: “No, I don’t know. You think I’m clueless?”

Franklin: “If I may interject: You also did a story on 1980s dance moves this week, John. Isn’t that the decade that made you realize you should never dance in public again? Should I break out the VHS tape of you doing “The Curley Shuffle” on stage in high school to remind you?

Puppy: “It still kills me when he got the pie in the face at the end of that one. And those moves? Was your hip broken or something then?

Me: “I think we’re getting a little off track here.”

Curious George: “I know. B-a-n-a-n-a-s, John. Come on!”

Me: “Now I know why Daniel has moved on from you guys. Time to put you back in storage in the garage.”

Puppy: “Noooo. Wait, wait, wait. You’re definitely doing wonderful work. I mean, guessing all of the potato chips in the challenge—that’s something a grown man should be proud of. You’re something else, alright!”

Franklin: “Agreed! Bravo! Can’t wait to read more.”

Me: “Hey, get over here, George!”

Curious George: “If I’m going to storage, the bananas are coming with me!”

Be a substitute teacher?

If you were a substitute teacher of high school seniors for a day, what one sentence would you first say to the class? 

Ron Owen Class dismissed.

John Roach I know where you'd go, Ron--to the beach!

Gregory Welsh Bueller, Bueller.... Anyone anyone anyone?????

Doug Basile Shut Up! Sit Down!

John Roach Doug: That tempts me to make my opening sentence be: "You guys are lucky you didn't get Mr. Basile."

Gray Stikeleather Handwerk Listen, I don't want to be here anymore than you do, but we have to, so let's just agree to get through this as painlessly as possible. It's like Homer Simpson once said, "Okay, brain, I don't like you and you don't like me. But let's work together this one time and then I'll go back to slowly killing you with beer."

John Roach I'd want to see how well the cell-happy kids actually know each other. I'd go with: "We'll start with a quiz: Write down the first and last name of every person in this class--whoever has all the right names, can leave and enjoy a free period.

John Roach But I'm definitely partial to you and Homer, Gray Stikeleather Handwerk!

Chris Colter We're having class outside today on the beach.

John Roach Best. Teacher. Ever, Chris Colter

Christine Laudeman Soloway It only gets worse from here!

John Roach: re Christine Laudeman Soloway: Initially, my thought about subbing for seniors was that it would only get worse from here FOR ME. My first sentence might have been: "Here's my emergency contact information just in case something happens today."

Mike Campellone "My defense attorney thought this teaching thing would be good for my anger issues."

Tom McNamara <knocks over desk> “Are we going to have any problems?”

John Roach Ahhh, now the people who deal with students are chiming in. Things just got real!

Bridget Ann White I am happy to be here; don't try to change my mind.

Be a business consultant

Nothing like a drive around our great country to remind me why I’d never make it as a small-business owner. Others just seem to know exactly what will work. 

For example, in rural Purvis, Mississippi, I drove past a small mom-and-pop store with an eye-catching sign out front: Grammy and Pappy’s Knife Store.

See, I never would have thought to combine cuddly-sounding grandparents with deadly weaponry. I’m so clueless.

The owners of rental accommodations in Tuscaloosa, Alabama, also paired the unlikely: Mansion Condominiums. Not exactly truth in advertising, but at least one of those two words was honest. 

Such creative thinkers are on to something, and I can’t refuse a challenge. So I’ve decided to be a small-business consultant. Just for a day. That’s probably all it will take for me to master things, judging by the competition.

Now if I were a small-business owner, there are several fields I could enter and dominate in the spirit of knife-selling Grammies, particularly if I wanted to use my last name in the title.

Roach Exterminators, anyone? There is also the obvious: Roach Motel, or maybe The Roach Diner. Sure-fire successes all!

Even better would be Roach Survival Guide Safaris: “Roaches will out-last everything—and so can you!” Or maybe, Roach Tech Support: “We get rid of the bugs in your computer.”

How can I help others? Let me count the ways.

Xavier Kahn wants to open a law firm? X. Kahn Legal Services.

Emily Burns wants to make quick-and-easy takeout food? Burns Meals Fast!

And I’m smart enough to know “Wild” Bill’s Psychiatry just won’t fly.

Some people just don’t know how foolish they sound.

Memorable 1980s dance moves

Daniel is now getting into watching "The Fresh Prince of Bel Air," which led to us watching "The Carlton Dance" on YouTube. It's soooo bad, I lumped it in with other unforgettable (for better or worse) dance moves of the 1980s.

But actually, that show was from the 1990s, as was Seinfeld with The Elaine, and the dance craze The Macarena--all of which I thought were in the '80s. Did no one in the '90s learn anything about taste from the '80s?

What are your most unforgettable dance moves from the '80s? My list of 7 includes 2 must-haves because of their brilliance and others ranging all along the "Great" to "Grating" scale: The Moonwalk, Thriller, Bobby Brown's Genie Pants Dance, Walk Like an Egyptian, The Cabbage Patch, The Electric Slide, and The Running Man.

• Diane Grey Kalafut: John, you are a GREAT dad. Daniel may not appreciate it now but how COOL is a dad that will show the dance moves of generations gone by to his young son.... so blessed!
• Charlotte Brown Law: I can see you in COHS gym doing those moves!
• Christine Mancuso DiVuolo: I am surprised you don't have the Ickey Shuffle on your list. The "Churning butter" was always a fave of mine. And wasn't it MC Hammer doing hammer time in the big gold genie pants (you know you had a pair)
• Ron Owen: How about the Batman, the Sprinkler
• Gray Stikeleather Handwerk: It was the mc hammer dance in the genie pants!
• Linda Buck Roach: When was Madonna's Vogue? That was a classic. I thought I was so sexy when I "vogued!!" HA HA. I think it was from the 90's.
• John Roach: Mixing up "My Prerogative" and "Can't Touch This"??? How could I? Where do I turn in my neon-colored '80s Solid Gold dancer card?
• Bill Gardiner: John, no love for Vanilla Ice? Ice Ice Baby!
• John Roach Bill Gardiner: What about Milli Vanilli and their sashay dance? Uhhh NO!
• Kathy McLaughlin: How bout walk the dinosaur?
• John Roach: I forgot "The Curly Shuffle." Although that might have just been popular among we weird O'Hara folks . . .

Be a potato chip expert

Be a potato chip expert (Part 2)   

The Chip Monk wannabe and the Chip Monkey (12-year-old Daniel) hit the store to pick up 7 different varieties of chips so I could take a potato chip challenge. The Chip Monkey worried about the purchase.

"Why are we doing this?" Daniel asked. Why indeed.

"Mom's not gonna like this," he said as I walked to the register with $20 worth of junk food, a credit card and a smile.

"These are the rules: you get to try three chips and then if you don't guess right, you lose a life or something." No pressure there. 

"Can I do this, too?" Ahhh, a chip off the old block.

The way I figure, a good Chip Monk needs 2 qualifications: 1.) One must be able to distinguish among chips. (A blindfolded challenge for which we’re now ready.)

2.) One must be a potato chip snob. (“Salt-free, fat-free chips?!? Isn’t that just paper?”) I already meet this criteria.

With Linda’s scarf as a blindfold, I crushed the chip challenge, accurately distinguishing among Lays Classic, Kettle chips, Munchos and PopChips—which were all surprisingly similar—as well as Pringles, Lays Wavy and Ruffles.

Phew, that means I’m not a ChippenDip!

Daniel and his friends joined in the challenge; a quick apology to any anti-chip neighborhood parents, but you’re rolling the dice letting your kids head our way. And I’m proud to say Daniel was the only other contestant with a perfect score. What can I say, he’s a blue-chip talent!

If you would like to qualify for Chip Monk designation, please send $1 to the Chips are Down Foundation, care of my wife. That may enable me to get my credit card back.

Be a potato chip expert (Part 1)

I read somewhere—I forget where—that contests are held to find the best sommelier. For those who don’t read, or forget where they read things, a sommelier is a wine expert, the person at fancy restaurants who suggests the right wine for your meal.

I’d like to be recognized as an expert. But not in a high-brow, “You’ll want a 2001 French Stewart with that foie Mardi gras” kind of way. If I’m in a sommelier’s restaurant, I’m probably asking for directions or to use the men’s room.

My area of expertise is kind of obvious. I’m a potato chip connoisseur. Ruffles, Lay’s, Pringles, Utz, kettle-cooked, rippled – I could go on, but I need to find a way to prove my expertise.

And what will I call myself? The title needs to be sophisticated but less snooty than sommelier, which loosely translated means, “I loathe you.”

Would I be a Chipper? A Chapper? A Chippendale! Whoa, that’s going down the wrong road.

Maybe a ChippenDolt? A Chip Witch? Any volunteers for that title?

Nope, I got it: A Chip Monk. It implies a lifetime of serious, studious chipology with just a hint of “My, you’re stupid” attached to it.

So now all I have to do is earn the designation. Shouldn’t be hard, since I’m making up the rules. (To be continued)