Swinging With The Enemy

Last month I wrote about how I was a last-minute replacement for a co-worker that netted me a trip to Memphis, where I discovered the soul of a city that burns brightly. The lesson learned was, essentially, never to look a gift horse in the mouth, and to enjoy what is given to you.

Well, the fun never ends.

Last week our Marketing Director came to my office and asked if my schedule was open for Friday. When I told her that I had a meeting in the morning, she asked if I could get out of it then handed me a brochure. Knowing I am a golfer, she wanted me to play in a charity golf outing, representing the company. My reply was, ‘Where’s the first tee and what’s the course record?’ She arranged to get me out of my meeting commitment, and I was in. Get the day off, play golf for free.

Nice, huh?

Well, a closer look uncovered a potentially uncomfortable situation. The event was being run by Max Starks, football player for the….Pittsburgh Steelers. And he had invited a bunch of his teammates to the outing. Now most people would say big deal - you get to rub shoulders with professional athletes. My conundrum was that I am a Cleveland Browns fan, and a rather rabid one at that - how do I play this? Do I even let on that I root for the archrivals of the guy putting on the event? Do I just set loyalties aside and enjoy the day? Seriously - this is the kind of stuff that keeps me up at night.

After bouncing it off of some people, including fellow Browns fans, I got my answer. I would show up wearing my Browns polo & my Browns golf bag tag proudly displayed. Screw ‘em. I arrived expecting much flak from, well, whomever. So off our foursome went, starting on the 13th hole. We were standing in the middle of the 14th fairway when a rather large dude pulls up in a golf cart & says “They told me I was playing with you.” One look told the story - we got a Steeler player joining our foursome.

I introduced myself & he responded in kind - Dorian Brooks, 24-year old backup center for the Stools. Activated the day before the Super Bowl to replace the injured Maurkice Pouncey. What was also evident was that Dorian had never played a round of golf in his life. To just make sure, I asked him and his response was “I’ve never even played Putt-Putt before.”

Lovely.

There's me & Dorian. Anyway, I told Dorian to drop a ball down in the fairway, take out a club & have at it. Four flailing attempts at the ball resulting in three whiffs & a divot a foot behind the ball told me this was going to be a long, hot day. I explained to Dorian that this is a scramble event, and that if he hits a bad shot he can just pick it up. He liked that. After a few more spastic attempts to get the ball in motion, we decided that we would exploit Dorian’s talents on the putting green…only.

About 7 or 8 holes into the round it became evident to Dorian that he was not going to be much help to the team’s cause - his body language screamed ‘Get me the hell off of this sauna disguised as a golf course and away from these white dudes that I have zero in common with.’ This was when I had a stroke of near-genius. We had a three-foot putt left for a par. Simple putt. Dorian was in the cart texting someone when I told our group, ‘Hey hold on - let’s get Dorian to putt this in.’ I then went into Coach-Mode & yelled “Brooks! Grab you putter & get up here! We need you!” Dorian, being the athlete that he is and conditioned to coaches screaming at him, dutifully ran up to the green with a look on his face that would make Ray Lewis require a diaper. Dude was ready. I said “We need you here. You have to make this putt for us.”

Now, the truth of the matter was, we didn’t need him. We had four cracks at making a three-foot putt. But I wasn’t about to tell him that. I wanted him to think that it was all on him - it’s fourth-and-a-foot, and I need YOU to get me that foot. I felt like Al Pacino on Any Given Sunday, giving his halftime speech to the team.

Dorian, after a “Oh Lord” came out of his mouth, nervously address the putt, took the putter back shakily & then gently eased it into the ball…

And rolled it right into the center of the cup.

A relieved “YEAH!’ came from his mouth, high-fives all around. Dorian saved us. And from then on, he was engaged with the team, helping us read greens, trying to understand this crazy game we play. We had a blast. And totally gone was the fact that I was a Browns fan & he was a Steeler player. We were teammates, and that was all that mattered.

After the round, I met Max Starks. He’s not big - he’s mammoth. Six-foot-eight, 350 pounds. I swear the guy is so big he generates his own gravity. I half-expected to see moons orbiting him. I asked for a picture and he obliged, but there was a condition. As he put it, “We gotta do something about that logo on your shirt.” It was at that point that I had forgotten that I was wearing the Browns polo, fresh off the bonding experience with Dorian. And when a man-mountain says ‘We gotta do something’ about it, I was expecting him to rip it off, give me a swirlie or something.

No, he just had a simple condition. He had to put his hand over the logo. Which he did, and here we are:

My Gawd, I look like I'm 12 years old. Anyway, we sat down to eat, when the other 'gift' for the day awaited. A Terrible Towel. Double lovely. Well, as I said, I do not look gift horses in the mouth, but that does not mean I have to accept them either.

I left after I ate. The Terrible Towel stayed there.

Memphis Blues, Not Blue

So about a month ago, a coworker came into my office and queried, “Wanna go to Memphis?”

My initial reply was, why? To which he explained that he was scheduled to give a presentation at a bus conference but had a conflict with his annual vacation to Ireland. Well, after pulling a couple of strings and a rearrangement of schedules, I found myself on a Delta flight this past Monday, heading to the Land of Elvis, filling on for my coworker.

I have to admit that I was not expecting much. My main curiosity was to watch the March of the Ducks at the Peabody Hotel where I was staying, maybe catch up on some sleep. As well I was feeling like that poor stepchild, having recently received an email from my nephew describing his trip to Spain and sleeping in a 15^th century castle, and my aforementioned coworker off to trace his family roots in Ireland.

I get freekin’ Memphis.

Whatever. Make the most of it, I said to self. So I get there Monday night with a scheduled meet ‘n greet at B.B. King’s on Beale Street. Great time - open bar, buffet of barbecue. And lemme tell you something right now - your choices of food in Memphis are barbecue and barbecue. But, with such a limited repertoire, I can tell you they do a helluva barbecue. Get any of that in Spain, nephew? And of course, lots of music. Blues. To repeat - Da Bluuuuuuuze. Memphis is renowned for the blues. They also claim to be the home of rock & roll, thanks to a lad that was born in nearby Tupelo, Mississippi who made a few records in Memphis.

Elvis may be The King, but the blues is king in Memphis. Mississippi delta backwater bayou, roll up your pants & stomp on the muck blues compliments of Muddy Waters and Robert Johnson. Gospel-tinged soul blues compliments of Dusty Springfield (she recorded there). Gritty, house-band blues compliments of Booker T & The MG’s. And home to more bands and performers you have never heard of but can blow the roof off of any honky tonk on either side of the big river that separates Memphis from Arkansas.

After enjoying my time at B.B. King’s, I took a stroll down Beale. Now like most towns, Memphis has its share of panhandlers, but at least in Memphis they’re creative. One guy challenged me to a sing-off for five bucks. Another was hawking CD’s of an apparent Memphis legend by the name of Big Jerry. Never heard of him. I stepped into one bar and there was a very large black man sitting in a chair onstage with sunglasses on, bobbing his head back and forth in time to the accompanying slide guitar and harmonica - on cue he would belt out the same lyrics - “People always ask me why I sing the blues….I tell them Lawd cuz I done paid my dues…” His name is Blind Mississippi Morris. That's him in the pic below.

A couple of blocks down the blues of Blind Mississippi Morris faded, taken over by the unmistakable twang of the voice of Johnny Cash. Stepping into the club, there was an old skinny white guy belting out ‘A Boy Named Sue’ replete with a running commentary that would make The Man in Black proud. Further down, near the barricades marking the end of the tourist section of Beale (and if that didn’t clue you in not to go any further, three Memphis police cars stationed there pretty much did the trick), another sound took the air - a harmonica backed by a slide guitar & organ, belting out ‘Hoochie Coochie Man’.

What a fun place.

And I can tell you, as I turned around and started heading back the other direction up Beale towards the river, the amalgam/alchemy of these sounds defined the place. And then I looked down. I wasn’t walking anymore. Instead it was more of a skip to the music, a lightness in my feet as I enveloped the atmosphere.

I was walking in Memphis. With my feet ten feet off of Beale.

Thanks a lot, Marc Cohn.

My Man Mike

One of my more annoying traits, to those that care about me, is isolating. I have recently received quite a bit of feedback from friends and family about this; how I need to get out of my man-cave and at least pick up the phone once I a while. They’re right. I do tend to isolate. I could get into the reasons why but I won’t, at least not here. Not the purpose of this story. What this story is about is someone that I have known for 46 of my 52 years on this planet, how he has re-entered my life, and as a result has broken through my isolationism.

Mike grew up one block over from me in Cuyahoga Falls, Ohio. We went through grade school, middle and high school together. During our teen years we both gravitated towards golf and played tons of rounds together. A far better player than me, Mike went on to play the mini-tours in the 80’s and was a professional for a while. During our adult years we would get together every few years for a round of golf – maybe we were both in Ohio at the same time or business would bring him over to my neck of the woods. So we have more or less stayed in touch for the last three or so decades. He presently works in the golf industry with a job that allows him inside access to some fine courses. He lives in Ft. Myers but is up here in Orlando every week on business.

Back in 2009 when I took a job in Orlando, I got hold of Mike to let him know. Since then we have seen a lot of each other, and about four months ago we decided that we were going to get together once a week to play golf.

Awesome decision.

Wednesday evenings at Winter Park Country Club is our time. Two fifty-somethings that still play pretty decently but mostly get together to bond, play the game we love, share. We walk, never take a cart. Dinner always follows our rounds. I am not sure Mike knows how much these rounds mean to me, but they have become the focal point of my week. An oasis of fun in an otherwise demanding schedule of work, meetings, commitments. They ground me. Give me relief and a chance to walk in the fresh air, laugh, just have fun.

Mike is a total bro. Extremely easy-going, supportive, an ally. When I recently went through a break-up with my girlfriend, he called me to see how I was doing. When we got to the course that week, I took a few minutes before teeing off to update him on things, how I was feeling – I wanted to get it out of the way before we teed off. Because once clubface meets ball, we are golfing. Life gets put on hold and we just enjoy each other’s company and the game we both love.

As I mentioned earlier, Mike is pretty damn good. He’s about a 2-handicap, hits a nice controlled draw, can pump it out there 260 yards if need be. Good touch around the greens. And, most importantly, a great attitude. Hit a bad shot? Drop another ball and try again. Three putt a green? Mike will say “C’mon you’re a better player than that. Hit another one.”

Last week we were on the sixth hole at Winter Park. A 310-yard dogleg-right par 4. Tall trees down the right that make cutting the corner difficult, The fairway runs out at about 230 yards, so the ‘prudent play’ is to hit a fairway metal or hybrid about 210 to the corner & have a simple wedge to the green. Every time we get to this hole, Mike pulls out the driver and tries to cut the corner. Of the 15 or so times we have played this hole, he has succeeded once in getting it on the green. The other times he's failed to clear the trees or hits it through the fairway into the woods beyond. Finally this past week I said “You know Mike, not for nothing, but you and driver just doesn’t seem to be a good fit here. Just too many things can go wrong, especially with your length. Why do you keep doing it?” His reply, which totally embodies him, was,

“Because it’s fun.”

And that reply was what it is all about, and what he is all about. Having fun. Score is irrelevant, well kinda. Sometimes we play for a Snickers Bar. But outside of that, yes, it’s about having fun. We don’t play golf to torture ourselves, we do it for fun. And Mike is fun. Fun to be around. Fun to have as a friend.

And he is my dear, dear friend. I would recommend anyone to get to know him, but knowing me, I would probably get jealous if you did. He’s mine.

And I’ll fight you for him.

http://www.winterparkcountryclub.com/index.asp

Elevator Music

So I was at the dentist a couple of weeks back, and like most dentist’s offices there was music playing in the background. At first I really didn’t notice it until I grabbed a magazine and sat down to wait to be called back. Suddenly I am singing along with the lyrics - ‘Livin easy, livin free…season ticket on a one way ride…’

Yes. My dentist had AC/DC as his elevator music.

At first I had a bemused smile, thinking that my generation, born in the 50’s and 60s, had come of age. But then I gave it more thought and realized something a bit deeper - the rebelliousness of my youth has become the mainstream of today. And that kinda ticked me off. See, as a teenager in the late 70’s, I listened to that music with my afro mop of hair spastically jerking side to side, one hand holding a joint, the other with the middle finger extended. Screw you, world. This is my music, and fuck off if you don’t like it. If it’s too loud you’re too old.

Now that music is in dentist’s offices. Ugh.

Here’s a history lesson for anyone under 35. What we were listening to in the 70’s was a radical departure from what our parents listened to. As a child I was exposed to Ray Coniff, Sergio Mendez (and the Brazil ’66), and Frank Sinatra. Smooth, syrupy, comatose soliloquies of strangers in the night and tying yellow ribbons around old oak trees. It sucked. So my generation took a sharp turn away from this tripe and embraced loud, in your face noise (my dad certainly didn’t call it music, that’s for sure) about Running With The Devil, being Born To Run, and finding Paradise By The Dashboard Lights. We were young, brash, and we found something that we could tell the older generation to stick in your Herb Alpert pipe and smoke it, Pops. Every one of us would achieve nirvana bliss whenever dad would bang on our bedroom door imploring us to “TURN THAT CRAP DOWN!”

Not on your life, dad. We would turn it up to 11 in response.

Alas, we got older. And I had this fear as I entered my twenties, that one day a switch would flick in my brain and I would no longer want to listen to The Who or The Clash. That age would make me eschew this brash noise of my teens and I would settle down with some kind of flatline droll. Thankfully, that never happened. To this day, if I hear My Generation, I am still hoping I die before I get old. Nice.

Little did I realize that I was not unique. My whole generation was with me. And then, a decade or two later, it was the music of the majority. And now, in 2011, it is piped through doctor’s offices. It’s funny, looking back to three decades ago, that this would happen. It didn’t seem possible.

Who would have thought that ‘Love in an Elevator’ would become elevator music?

The irony.

Let’s Talk About Me

There was a saying in a movie – or maybe it was a comedian, not sure. He said ‘Enough about me. Let’s talk about you. What do you think of me?’

I love that phrase.

I am pretty self-centered. Much of that has to do with being single most of my adult life. Becoming a father helped to temper this, as I truly do what’s best for my son, but he lives with his mom. So when you live alone for thirty-some years., you tend to focus on what you want to do without much concern for others. Because there aren’t any others.

A year or so I wrote a story on this blog titled ‘Being Single’. It was a take on living in a big city alone, and the pangs of guilt I get when I don’t partake in all that Orlando has to offer. But it was also a personal pep talk – it was a veiled wish that I could be in a relationship with someone who I loved and cared about. Well, wouldn’t you know, a few months after writing that, I met someone. We hit it off immediately, loved spending time together, and we fell in love. Nice.

Last week we broke up. Lasted all of three months. Which brings me to another one of my favorite phrases -

A little of me goes a long way.

I don’t know if I am any more or less ‘difficult’ of a person to deal with. I got my shit, so to speak. But everyone does. One the minus side of ledger is stubborn insistence of alone time (a product of all my years beng alone), and a rather large skeleton in my closet that sometimes comes out to play. I won’t elaborate more than that, just to say that it is a factor in dealing with me. That’s about it. On the plus side is I can be very charming, friendly, easy smile, fairly intelligent. I can be your best advocate; a man in your corner, so to speak. If you’re my friend or lover, I am on your side. Always.

But I can also be overbearing, arrogant. always right. Especially that last one – I will insist that my way is the best way to do something to that, as I have found out, erodes relationships. I talk too much. I say things that I wish I could grab out of the air and stuff back into my mouth. I find myself spending a lot of time explaining what I said so as to not be misunderstood. It gets tiring – not just for me but for the people around me.

That’s why I said a little of me goes a long way. Not counting my ex-wife, the longest relationship I have had is six months. And my wife was a marathon of a year and a half. My latest one lasted three months.

Now, I could go through each of my relationships and explain the dynamic, and how this one was not right for me, that one was insecure and so on. But there is an undeniable thread though all of the relationship that didn’t work. Me. I was that common element in all of them And my track record, frankly, sucks. And further, each of my ex’s can give you whatever their reasons were for breaking up. Some of them said it was them, but I don’t buy it. It was me.

It’s always about me.

Automatically Wrong

So I understand that Glenn Beck & Company were discussing on Faux News the other day whether or not Osama Bin Laden should have been killed.

Read that sentence again. They were actually criticizing President Obama for authorizing the raid on the safe house in Pakistan where Bin Laden was holed up.

Now, I understand. This is how Fox rolls. Being the mouthpiece for the right means having to criticize whatever Obama does, even when it results in the extermination of the most feared and wanted terrorist on earth, responsible for 3,000 deaths on 9/11/01, and whom the previous president started two wars over.

But Obama did it. And in keeping with their script, they must therefore criticize it.

I have some faith that most people understand how the right operates. However, given Fox’s strong viewing numbers, I am not so sure. And it is because there are some people, and the results of the 2008 presidential election say they are in the minority, that eats this stuff up. They didn’t vote for Obama so it is human nature that they want to criticize him. That’s fine. But there comes a time to just say stop already. Bin Laden is dead. This is a good thing. Be proud to be an American, even if your bias precludes you from being proud of Obama.

But why is this? Why is there a certain percentage of this country that cannot even accept that Obama is an American, much less the president? And by extension, cannot accept anything he does and thus has to be stopped or at least slowed down in anything he tries to accomplish?

The Right will not tell you this, but the reason for this has to do with the way they felt George W. Bush was treated. They feel that he was unjustly criticized and are now just slapping back. Well, this is where I take my stand in the debate. In short, Bush earned his criticism. Obama just got elected.

Ever wonder why it took almost ten years to finally get Bin Laden? Ever think it might have had to do with having him surrounded in Tora Bora in late 2001 only to let him squirm away, then making a decision to needlessly start a war elsewhere? Bush couldn’t get Bin Laden, so he sold the public that the real fight should be in Iraq. Many, like myself disagreed. But understand – it wasn’t a kneejerk ‘I disagree with anything Bush does’ criticism, it was more like, ‘Uh, really? Iraq is where we need to be? Well okay but you better be right.’

He wasn’t.

Flawed intel, no WMD, 4,000 American troops killed, hundreds of thousands of Iraqis. In short, Bush earned his criticism. So, years later, Obama finally gets the guy Bush had in his sights in 2001. And there is no doubt in my mind that had it been Bush that gave the order, those chuckleheads would have been exploding with plaudits.

Hey look – I understand this is how the Right and Left operate. Support their man, criticize the other side. But this has gotten plain silly. Remember right after Obama was elected and they had an elderly lady weeping, saying ‘I want my country back’...?

Sweetie, nobody took it from you. You just got out-voted. It happens.

But there’s an insidious undercurrent to all this. Never have I seen such a president receive such unwarranted heat from so many sides. Hell, never have I seen an elected president’s nationality criticized. Obama, unfortunately, has become the first president in history that had to hold a press conference to release his birth certificate. Such is the voracity from the right.

So here’s my conclusion, and you’re not going to like it. But stop by a coffee shop in Nashville or a Waffle House in Fort Worth and tee this one up and see what you get –

Some people just cannot accept a black man being president.

And before you criticize me for saying that, give me another reason why he would be ostracized by anyone for catching and killing Bin Laden. Post a comment. Enlighten me.

The Secret To Golf

So I am sitting here watching The Golf Channel, and some yayhoo is babbling on about how to shoot lower scores. He's talking about how, on an uphill lie you have to adjust your spine angle backwards so that it is perpendicular to the slope of the ground along with tilting your head back, move the ball back in your stance. He then talks about hitting out of a downhill lie with the same level of information. He repeats this for ball below your feet and above your feet.

I can confidently tell you after watching this that he is full of shit.

Not that his advice was wrong. On the contrary, it was pretty much spot-on accurate...if you're interested in such nuances of the game rather than learning what the essence of the game is. Which is, cue the drum roll, scoring. The guy was trying to make shotmakers out of people. Which is fine if you're already sporting a 3 handicap. Problem is, 99% of the golfers out there don't. They're worse. Much worse.

So I am watching this guy rapid-firing this advice to some 5 million viewers just picturing Joe Six Pack and his 35 handicap trotting out to his Muni & trying this advice on spine angles for uneven lies as he rips out sods of turf large enough to pay taxes on. Then throwing his clubs into the closet. This is the fundamental problem with "golf instruction" - it's too technical, too nuanced. And it concentrates too narrow of a focus on what your elbows or knees are doing during the swing. We call this paralysis by analysis.

Well, dear readers, I am here to help. Golf is a complicated game. 14 clubs. Wind. Course Conditions. The daily variances in your body. Driver swing. Iron swing. Short game. Putting. Bunker shots. To learn how to hit all these shots adequately will take countless hours at a driving range. Time most of us don't have. Therefore, I give you, Jerry Bryan's Four Keys to lowering your scores. They are progressive, depending on where your game is at, and where you want it to be. You don't even have to write them down. Just do them and smile as your scores drop. Here we go:

If you want to break 100, learn how to putt

If you want to break 90, learn how to chip

If you want to break 80, learn course management

If you want to break 70, play tournaments

Now, that's not so hard, is it?

Most golfers do not realize how many strokes are frittered away within 50 yards of the hole, especially on the putting green. Joe Six Pack may marvel at his 270-yard drives, yet he grumbles at the 102 he just shot that included 42 putts.

Joe...learn how to putt. Next time you have the urge to slap a bucket of drivers at the range, instead save the ten bucks for the balls and go to the putting green. Take 6 balls and make a circle around the hole four feet away. DO NO LEAVE until you make all six of them in a row. If you miss one, start over. Next: Place those 6 balls 20 feet from the hole and DO NOT LEAVE until you can hole half of them. Next: Place those 6 balls 40 feet from the hole. DO NOT LEAVE until you two-putt all of them. Do that 3 times a week for 3 weeks. That 102 will turn into a 92.

Okay, wanna drop that 92 to an 84? Learn how to chip. This also includes pitches & greenside bunker shots. Spend an hour a week three times a week hitting 100 of these shots. Learn to be creative - bump and runs, lob shots. Make a mental picture of what you want to ball to do then recreate it. That will turn the 92 into an 84, because you are now learning where the money shots in this game are.

Now you're sensing that you could be decent at this game if you could just eliminate those snowmen (those are 8's for the uninitiated) from your score card. This is where course management comes in. Learn where to miss. Learn to keep the ball below the hole. Realize you're not going to clear that 240-yard water hazard and that two wedge shots still gives you a shot at par, bogey worse. Swallow your pride and hit a 3-wood off the tee...or better yet an iron. Don't go after sucker pins and instead aim for the fat part of the green where, given your newfound confidence in your putting stroke, will result in an easy two-putt for par. Watch those snowmen turn into bogeys. And watch you post your first sub-80 round.

Now. Wanna really get serious about your game? Check out you local amateur events. Maybe your club's member-guest. Heck, even money games played strictly under USGA rules would work. No gimmes. No mulligans. No advice. Play naked. Go out there armed only with yourself and your swing, play the ball down and let's see how you score. At first, your scores will balloon. Memories of that 78 you shot last week will fade with the ugly reality that you just shot 91 in competition. You will want to crawl into a hole and disappear. Don't. Sign up for another event. And another. Eventually you will start posting 75's. THEN go play with your buds and just smile as you shoot a 68 as easy as falling out of bed. Because your swing has learned how to hold up under pressure, you can putt lights out, and you don't make stupid mistakes on the course anymore. You're now bulletproof.

There is an inherent simplicity of my Four Step approach. This is by design. You will notice I didn't even mention anything about weight shift, pronation, grip pressure, completing your backswing or any of the other stuff that guy on The Golf Channel was droning on about. Hell, I didn't even mention anything to do with the swing - I don't care if you have a flying elbow or a reverse weight shift. Just groove what you got. Learn to putt. Learn to chip. Learn course management. Play tournaments.

You're welcome.

Bus Chucking, and Other Colorful Phrases

The English language is, arguably, one of the most difficult to master. Us proud Amurricans seem to think that any foreigner that sets foot on our soil should have an honorable command of how we speak and be able to converse with those of us who have been here all our lives.

Sorry to tell ya Bubba, but that dog won’t hunt.

That phrase brings me to the subject of this story. American colloquialisms. Those idiosyncratic phrases that just roll off our tongues and usually elicit chuckles from those that understand, and quizzical looks from those that think we’re off our rockers (there’s another one). Our language is loaded with them: ‘Whatever floats your boat’, ‘That’s a horse of a different color’, ‘I’m down with that’ …to name a few. It’s no wonder people think we are weird. Because we are. But my favorite (or perhaps least favorite) colloquialism has to be -

‘He threw me under the bus.’

Hey, I work in the transit industry. I can walk out of my office right now and take the elevator down to the street level, walk over to our main terminal and witness about forty buses pulling in and out. I have yet to see one person brazenly chucked under the rear tires.

Yeah I know. It’s just a phrase. But it sucks.

I want to know where this phrase originated. Is it a mobster thing? Did Jimmy Tree Fingers back in the thirties face-plant some shy under the Number 14 Line in Brooklyn for not paying him? Or perhaps it’s just an urban thing; you know, you’re standing at a bus stop and as it approaches some sociopath wants to get his jollies so he plants a shoe in grandma’s back just as the bus is passing? I don’t know. Educate me.

We even use the phrase in my business - ‘Hey Jerry, how did the meeting go?’ ‘Ah was fine until Frank threw me under the bus.’ Which, if you think about it, being used by transit professionals, is akin to cannibalism. Or something. Do airline executives say ‘He threw me into the turbine blades?’

Nope. Poor transit gets picked on again. On a given day on a given street in a given town, ten thousand vehicles can whizz by of which maybe a dozen or so are buses. Does anyone ever get thrown under a car? A taxi? A goddamn rickshaw?

Nope. Always a bus.

Transit Causes Cancer

There are times in our lives when we have a moment of clarity, when we realize all that we had believed up to that point in time is essentially a sham. This usually occurs when new wisdom is bestowed upon us that contradicts what we have always believed and instead of kneejerkedly rejecting it, we instead give it ponder and conclude something like ‘Holy Mother of Sweating Jesus – I was WRONG.”

This is not one of those stories.

I work for a large transit system in central Florida. My job is to design, implement and modify bus routes. Mobility of my customers – bus passengers – is my raison d’etre. And we have a lot of them – 26 million riders took our buses this past year. Eighty-two thousand a day. If I make a change to a route that is unfavorable I am a targeted man. If they like it, I am deified.

I have always been of the belief that a clean, efficient, modern transit system is a major asset to a city. Mobility of people so they can avoid paying four bucks a gallon for gas & preventing their carotid arteries from bursting while they drive I-4 is a good thing. The entities that fund our $112 million a year operating budget surely agree, and they revel in the goodwill and opportunities that our buses provide to their constituents. Whisk them to jobs at Disney, get them to doctor’s appointments, even going to visit their friendly parole officer, whatever. We keep people out of cars. Good for the community, good for the environment, all good.

Except when I place a bus on a street where non-transit riders live.

This happened a couple of months back when I modified one of our bus routes off a two-lane bricked street with roundabouts over to a four-lane road with apartment complexes. Seemed like a good idea. Until some residents of that four-lane roads that have never stepped foot on a bus found out about our plans. Then something extraordinary happened. These fine people caused me to have a moment of clarity. How? Well, all that stuff I just wrote about the benefits of transit? Seems that’s all wrong. Transit is not an asset to the community; on the contrary – it is a scourge. A pox. It’s big-government intervention shoving something they didn’t want down their throats.

Worse yet, it brought those people to their neighborhood.

You know those people, yes? The smelly. The dirty. The non-medicated. Those that, either through a conscience decision or through a combination of life-choices use public transit. People that don't own cars. People that like the convenience of not driving. The elderly. The poor. Those people. Yes, by bringing transit service to their bucolic setting I turned their world upside down. To hear them tell, crime rose, children’s safety was threatened, trash appeared. People they don't recognize, clearly members of the those people brigade, walking through their neighborhoods. I even had one homeowner tell me that we contribute to obesity by not making those people walk. I am sure that by now they have tied my decision to the meltdown of the Fukushima Dai-ichi nuclear power plant in Japan and as a result I am to blame for cancer-causing cesium raining down upon them. It’s all so clear to them.

I wish I had such clarity.

Alas, I don’t. I have only done this gig for 25 years so what do I know? I am a product of my now-ridiculed paradigm that transit is good. It’s not! Clearly! Those homeowners now have my head spinning as to what is true in this world. Up is down. Cats sleep with dogs. And transit makes people fat.

So where do I go from here? There is, as I see it, one of two possibilities. Either I am an altruistic public servant blithely led astray through a quarter-century of force-fed facts on transit's benefits...or they’re xenophobic racist assbags.

You decide.

My Dad, The Pimp

When I caught the golf bug at the ripe old age of ten and began swatting balls around Harrington Field in Cuyahoga Falls and on my made-up course in my parent's back yard, I envisioned being a PGA Tour player, beating Jack Nicklaus and Lee Trevino. A typical scenario that kids do in order to spice up the experience. I wasn’t very good, but I had an unquenchable appetite for hitting those golf balls. Hithithit…JERRY! DINNERS READY!…hithithit….JERRY! IT’S DARK OUT!….hithithit…As a result of nothing but this robotic repetition, something interesting happened when I got to be around the age of fifteen. I got good. I was shooting in the low 80's and getting the attention of people, like the local high school golf coach. At the age of sixteen I made my first hole in one.

I would go to a driving range armed with two buckets of balls, would sequester myself into my mental cocoon and start hitting them. After 25 or so shots, I would take a break, turn around, and there would be people standing there, watching me practice. “You have a very fine swing, young man.” Uh, thanks. “Have you ever thought about trying to play right-handed?” Uh, no, why would I?

This was 1973, and the sight of a left-handed teenager smacking 250-yard drives was a bit of a circus sideshow. Until that point, only one lefty had won a tour event, Bob Charles, the 1963 British Open. And many spectators to my practice sessions could not wrap their heads around this odd sight – left-handed golfers were rare. I cannot tell you how many times it was suggested that I jump to the other side of the ball and play righty. You might as well have asked a bear to recite Shakespeare.

A year earlier, I was playing baseball at Harrington Field after school when my dad pulled into the parking lot & hollered to me. “Jerry! Get over here!” In typical teenage slacker form, I ignored him. “Goddammit Jerry! I said get your damn ass over here!” I slunked over. What, Dad. He opened the trunk of the car, and there was a brand new set of left-handed Dunlop Bob Charles (1963 British Open Champ!), matched set of woods and irons in a pristine Dunlop Airliner red white and blue golf bag. Driver, three, four and five woods, two through 9 irons, pitching and sand wedge. A complete set. Up until that point I was playing with a starter set of crappy off brand department store sticks.

“What do you think of those, son?” The slacker attitude vanished. “Are..are…those MINE?”

“No son. I just lost my GODdamn mind and decided to start playing left-handed. Of course they’re yours. But you’re going to have to earn them.” At that point I didn’t care if ‘earning them’ would have consisted of feeding lepers in a diaper. Fortunately, Dad had other plans. Some real savvy plans. Cool plans.

He became my pimp.

When I got home, he laid it out. “Son, you started beating me when you were 12. For us to have a fair match you’d have to spot me four a side. I think it’s time we had some fun. I know some pigeons that we can fleece.”

Pigeons? Why would I want to fleece a bird? Why are you talking funny? What do birds have to do with new golf clubs….

Whenever I exasperated my dad I would get the same response from him – a deep sigh, followed with a salty phrase. In this case it was “Jeeeezuzchrist son. NO! I’m talking about playing golf for money. You and me against guys I know we can BEAT. We call people like that PIGEONS. Comprende?”

‘You mean I can make MONEY playing GOLF?’

(long sigh)…. “Yes son. Money. GodDAMMIT you are dense. But you can hit a golf ball like nobody’s business. We’re going to have a blast.”

J. Edward Good Park Golf Course is a fine public golf course on the west side of Akron. A stout 6,900 yards from the tips, it hosts the Summit County Amateur every summer along with a number of other events. Built in the 1920’s, it is an institution and has stood the test of time. To play there, you, as they say, ‘gotta have game.’ Narrow, tree-lined holes almost all of which dogleg either right or left. Lightning-fast greens. Ankle-high rough. Tough track. You have to work the ball both ways, hit it very straight, and have velvet touch around the greens.

It is also a Hustler’s Haven. Situated not too far from the ‘hood, Good Park is populated with older men in their 50s and 60s, smoking cigars, cussing up a storm, and eyeing easy marks. They literally hang out there all day looking for a game. My Dad used to play a Wednesday night golf league there and knew many of the regulars – “Jonesy! How’s the missus? Frankie! Fixed those yips yet?”

When Dad took me there I was in heaven. I stood there, mouth agape, staring at the lush fairways, the gentle doglegs, rolling terrain…just taking in the scenery. Dad was arranging matches - "Tellya what, Hoss. Me and my son will play the two of you, five bucks a hole, straight up. Look at my son….where in the fuck is my son…JERRY! Get your ass over here! Look at him. He's 125 pounds. You'd be crazy not to take that bet. What ? You want two a side? You’re smoking those funny cigarettes again, Hoss. My back is killing me, I’m getting over this cold..”

‘Dad, I don’t remember you being sick…’

He turned to me and hissed ‘shutyermouthgoddammitoriwillpermanentlyshutitforyou….’

‘Oh yeah, Sick. Bad. Diarrhea and all that stuff.’

“So what you say Hoss? Bet?”

Another unknown dynamic to these unsuspecting saps was that two years earlier my Dad got sober. A raging drunk, he was given a choice – drink and die, or quit and live. He made the wise choice. Now, two years later, his shaky hands were gone, and his touch had returned. Dad was never a ‘good’ golfer, but he could move it around at or near 90. A bogey golfer. But now, sober? That cut five strokes off his score.

“Hey Charlie, I’m gonna get us a couple of six packs for the round.”

“Uh, you go ahead Hoss. Im gonna lay off the sauce today. But drink one for me, willya?”

Dad was smooth. I swear, all he needed was a fur coat, fedora and platform shoes and he would be Huggy Bear.

So off we went. Dad would hit first and park one out there about 200 yards. Then I would step up, and with my interlocking, too-strong grip and exaggerated Reverse-C follow through, I would fly one past him by about 40 yards with a hard draw (which ten years later I got rid of) and with roll would sit out in the middle of the fairway, about 260 yards out.

The look on the pigeon’s faces were priceless, and they would grumble ‘Yeah, but I bet he can’t putt…’

Oh yes I could. That was the best part of my game. I had uncanny touch. I could get it up & down from the ball-washer. I had a great feel for distance with my wedges, and I had a silky-smooth putting stroke. I never three-putted. Never. Ever. Inside six feet I was automatic - you might as well concede the putt because I was going to make it. I knew I would and you knew I would. And it was this attrition-style of play, that, by the end of the match you felt like you just went through a five-hour Chinese Water Torture. You'd pay me just to get me out of your sight.

And at the end of those rounds, that’s exactly what they did. Huggy Dad would saunter over to the pigeon and out would come a roll of twenties wrapped in a rubber band, and my eyes lit up. “Twenty, forty, sixty….”

“Keep going” my Dad would say, “Remember, we pressed the 18th?”…”EIGHTY, one hundred…”

“I think you got it Hoss.”

The drives home were fantastic. “Holy SHIT son! GREAT playing! I am really proud of you! Here’s twenty bucks.”

Yes, I did the math. I realized Dad was making out on this arrangement. But I had just finished playing golf for free, and was handed a sawbuck. Life was good.

And besides, as they say, Pimpin’ Ain’t Easy.

Brady Lake

I come from a somewhat large family. Youngest of four, born girl-boy-girl-boy. My mother was a bookkeeper, my father a plumber. Both worked very hard to provide us with everything we needed…and some of the things we wanted. We did not go without, but were hardly wealthy. We were very middle-class, living in a middle-class suburb of Akron, Ohio. My childhood was a breezy, trauma-free experience, save one.

Brady Lake.

Brady Lake was a nearby bucolic setting of woods, picnic areas and a nice lake. Popular summer spot. One summer day when I was six years old my extended family had a picnic at Brady Lake – fifty or so of my relatives for a fun afternoon of swimming, horseshoes, softball, swimming and lots of food. Very Norman Rockwell-esque. It was a great day.

I am a loner by nature. And on that day, late in the afternoon, I took a walk by myself into the woods. Picking up caterpillars, dragging sticks in the mud, just having six-year-old fun in the woods. Then I had the feeling that I should head back to the picnic site – it was getting late, maybe 7 in the evening or so. So I headed back. When I got to the picnic site, nobody was there.

Everyone had left. The picnic had ended. They packed up everything, got in their cars and left. They remembered everything…except me. My mom and dad had driven separately, and in the confusion of packing up, mom thought I was with dad and vice versa.

Of course, I did not know this.

I panicked. And what does a six-year-old do when he panics? He screams. Loudly. And runs and cries hysterically. And that is exactly what I did. I ran and I screamed…and screamed and ran…where’s my mommy? Where’s daddy? Why did you leave me? Was I bad for going into the woods? Was this punishment for eating my boogers or teasing Michelle Blocksom on the playground last week at school? Will I ever see them again? MOMMY! DAAAAAAAAAAD! WAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!!!

As I ran, I came across a parking lot. On the other side was a large fenced-in area where people with funny looking sticks were swinging away at small white balls. I ran towards that place, still crying, still frantic. A man who I later found out was the owner of this place, saw me – “What’s the matter little fella?” “MMM-MMM-MY MMOMMY AN-AND-ANDDD DUH-DUH-DUH-DDDADDY WEFT ME! WAHHHHHH!”

The man took me over to his driving range and tried to calm me down. And I distinctly remember my eye being caught by this odd activity taking place. I pointed at the people and asked the man “Wuhhh-whaa-whhat are dey doing?”

“Why they are playing golf. Would you like to try?”

“Y-y-y-essss..”

That man gave me a golf club and a bucket of balls. And I started swinging. And suddenly, I wasn’t crying anymore. I wasn’t shaking anymore. By the tenth ball, I wasn’t lost anymore. By the twentieth ball, I had found something that, little did I know at the time, would fundamentally change my life.

Remember my mom and dad? I had forgotten about them. I was now having fun. But on the drive back home, mom had stopped for gas, when she noticed dad drive by and I was not in his car. Now panic gripped HER with the realization that Jerry was still back at Brady Lake. She burned rubber out of the gas station and high-tailed it back there. Pulling into the parking lot next to the driving range, she saw me and frantically ran over.

“Hi Mommy! I’m golfing!”

And that's how it started.

Playing Naked

Bobby Jones once said there is golf and then there is tournament golf, and they do not share much in common.

This is true.

When I caught the golf bug at the ripe old age of ten and began swatting balls around Harrington Field in Cuyahoga Falls and on my made-up course in my parent's back yard, I envisioned being a PGA Tour player, beating Jack Nicklaus and Lee Trevino. A typical scenario that kids do in order to spice up the experience.

But then something interesting happened when I got to be around the age of fifteen. I got good. I was shooting in the low 80's and getting the attention of people, like the local high school golf coach. At the age of sixteen I made my first hole in one. My dad would take me with him to the local 'Hustler's Haven', Good Park Golf Course in Akron, and would set up money matches with me as his partner - "Tellya what, Hoss. Me and my son will play the two of you, five bucks a hole, straight up. Look at my son. He's 125 pounds. You'd be crazy not to take that bet."

They usually did, and we usually won.

I was deceiving. Being slight of build, at 5-foot-9 and the aforementioned buck twenty five, I basically looked like a Q-Tip. It was, after all, 1974, and I had my Starter Afro going. I didn't boom out prodigiously long drives. Instead I was adept at consistently finding the fairway off the tee, getting my next shot at or around the green, and from there I had uncanny touch. I could get it up & down from the ball-washer. I had a great feel for distance with my wedges, and I had a silky-smooth putting stroke. I never three-putted. Never. Inside six feet I was automatic - you might as well conceded the putt because I was going to make it. I knew I would and you knew I would. And it was this attrition-style of play, that by the end of the match would have you feeling like you just went through a five-hour Chinese Water Torture, that would end up putting some nice coin in my pocket. You'd pay me just to get me out of your sight.

So, naturally, I built upon these experiences and tried my hand at playing competitively.

Now understand - playing for money and playing competitively are two entirely different things. Playing for money is beating one person who is in your company. Beat him and you win. Playing competitively is trying to beat a field of unseen adversaries. The talent pool is much deeper, and psychology is not a factor. Fewest amount of strokes wins out of 80 or so competitors. USGA Rules strictly enforced - no grounding the club in hazards (paging Dustin Johnson), no seeking advice (What did you hit there? 6 or 7 iron?), play it as it lies (Hey my ball rolled into a divot mark. Can I move it?). Pressure. Pressure cooker pressure.

This is what Bobby Jones meant.

Jones retired from competitive golf at the age of twenty eight, after winning the Grand Slam in 1930. Many were shocked that such a prodigious talent would leave the stage at the absolute zenith of his career. But for Jones, it was a no-brainer. Publicly he would state that he was an amateur, and that he wanted to pursue a career as a lawyer (which he did). But privately, and later in his books, he revealed the true reason for his abrupt retirement. Pressure. In a typical tournament, Jones would lose anywhere from 15 to twenty pounds simply through nerves.

Golf is not a reactionary sport. By that I mean it is not played through instinct. For example, a Linebacker see the play begin and reacts - his instincts tells him where to put his body to make the tackle, and a half-second later, he reacts. Golf is not like that. The ball sits there patiently waiting for you to hit it. There are no Safety blitzes, no shot clock. Take your time, the ball is patient. So the pressure created by this dynamic can be stifling - if Ray Lewis is bearing down on you, that's not pressure. That's panic. A golf ball waiting to be perfectly placed between a water hazard and a bunker 250 yards away in a tournament situation? That's pressure.

So my competitive golf career began when Dan Costill, my high school golf coach (and Driver's Ed teacher) suggested I try out for the golf team. So I did. And then something funny happened. When I was announced to the first tee, with all the other recruits standing around, I went blank. Then I went numb. I suddenly forgot how to push the tee into the ground and place the ball on top of it. My hands shook, my mind started racing and some unknown phantom body snatcher spirited away with my cocky attitude and swing. I took a couple of deep breaths, scanned my brain for something...anything to latch onto. I addressed the ball and I swung...

I hit it 50 feet.

The guys snickered. Coach Costill turned away. Panic enveloped me. I concluded the best reaction would be anger, and I slammed the club to the ground with a 'That came out of nowhere' incredulity, then placed my hands on my hips. I then took out my 3-wood, stomped to my ball, and with a total abandonment of my pre-shot routine, took an angry swipe at my ball. I whiffed. Now I have been taken over by evil demons and just took a virulent lunge at the ball. It went about a hundred yards forward, fifty yards left.

In the span of about two minutes, I had totally forgotten how to play golf.

Now, unlike team sports, where if you make a mistake you have a coach on you eager to point out corrective measures, golf has none. It's just you. Naked. Raw, unvarnished nakedity. I had to regroup. I took out a 7-iron just to advance the ball. I did. A few swipes later and I had finished my first round of competitive golf with a smooth triple bogey.

I did not make the golf team.

Coach Costill suggested I play some local amateur tournaments. He also strongly suggested I work on my mental toughness, alter my grip, learn to draw the ball, and practice practice practice. I did. Two years later, as a Senior, I tried out for the team again. This time I made it.

I have done some golf teaching in my time, and I will relate those experiences in another story. But here is what I have learned and imparted on my students -

If you want to break 100, learn how to putt.
If you want to break 90, learn how to chip.
If you want to break 80, learn course management.
If you want to break 70, play tournaments.

Learn how to play naked.

Firwood Avenue Country Club

Many have spent the days of their youth playing some kind of sport. Boys and girls have imagined themselves to be the next Alex Rodriguez or Mia Hamm, and have pursued this obsession by throwing a baseball against a garage door or kicking a soccer ball until their leg fell off. How many of us have constructed scenarios such as “Fourth quarter…eight seconds left…fourth and 16….he must make this catch to win the Super Bowl…"

I never did.

Oh sure, I played sports as a youth. But I pretty much sucked at all of them. So there were never any delusions of grandeur that I was going to grow up to be the next Rick Manning (Cleveland Indians Centerfielder from the 1970’s). I was too small for football, too white for basketball, and I could not hit the broad side of a barn - let alone a strike zone - with a baseball. My brother got the natural athlete genes. I inherited the overachieving dork becomes competent through hard work gene. The other dynamic was that all the sports I stunk at were team sports. So I was not just letting myself down through my putridity, but there were a whole group of boys (and girls) that were going down with me. I will just say this about that - kids can be mean.

And then, at the age of 10, I hit my first golf ball. I was actually pretty good at that. So I hit another. And another andanotherandanotherandanother…and then it got dark. The next day I hit those golf balls until my hands bled. And by the way, I was hitting them left-handed with my dad’s RIGHT-handed five iron. I would turn the club upside down so that the toe of the club was touching the ground, and swung away. My dad soon noticed this (”Where in the hell is my five iron? JERRY!) and rectified this by taking me to Clarkins and buying me a set of left-handed Spalding Johnny (not Arnold) Palmer golf clubs. Starter set. Driver & three woods, 3,5,7 & 9 irons, putter. It was the most exciting day of my then-ten-year life.

But there was a problem. We lived in a suburban, middle class neighborhood. Modest homes on 40-by-120 foot lots. No real room to practice hitting golf balls there unless I wanted to expend my allowance on replacing broken windows. So I solved this problem with a bit of ingenuity that would, I think, make Lee Iacocca call a board meeting to discuss. I got a pack of plastic golf balls, the whiffle-ball types, and designed a course out of the front yards of the homes along Firwood Avenue, Cuyahoga Falls, Ohio.

You know how, when kids play ball in the street, first base is the fire hydrant, second base is a paper bag strategically place in the middle of the street, third base is the ‘No Parking This Side Of Street’ sign & home plate is someone’s mitt? I did that, golf-style. Firwood was a water hazard. Hit it & you’re taking a drop, two club lengths no closer to the hole. What were the holes? Why, the elm tree in my front yard. The garage door. The neighbor’s cat if need be. And our driveway, which was actually a double-driveway with our neighbors, the Schreibers, was a vast, green fairway (in my mind) where I would launch shots, off the asphalt pavement, down towards Firwood. But not too far, as remember - Firwood’s a water hazard. I would then deftly launch a 9-iron OVER Firwood toward the birch tree on the Allen’s devil strip. The sidewalk was also a water hazard, so this shot had to be executed with Tiger-esque perfection. Hey, YOU try to hit a plastic ball off asphalt over the street & get it to land - and stop - on a 6-foot wide devil strip. I was a magician.

We had nasty winters in northeast Ohio. The snow would start flying in mid-November and you did not see the ground again until Easter. This created a challenge. I soon discovered that you could not make a full backswing wearing a parka. Also, the white plastic golf balls tended to blend in too well with snowdrifts. But on the plus side, hitting a ball out of snow is similar to hitting it out of a sand trap.

So I had that going for me.

Because, yes, I played my golf course through the winter. And Jack Nicklaus played alongside me. Remember the images I conjured up earlier about A-Rod and Mia Hamm? Well, Jack was my playing partner, my rival, my adversary. And I beat him every time.

Now, I would love to tell you that this led to a career on the PGA Tour and millions of dollars. Alas, no. But it did lead to a three-handicap and a love affair that exists to this day and will for as long as I am on this side of the earth. I have had occasion to play some pretty tough golf courses - Doral Blue, Firestone, Bay Hill. But I can assure you, that on none of those tracks have I ever had to face shots like I faced at Firwood Country Club, circa 1969. At Doral, if you hit it on the cart path, you get a free drop. On my course, the "cart path" was the fairway. Where was I gonna drop the ball - in Mrs. Schreiber's rose bushes? Not if I wanted to see my 11th birthday.

I soon became the buzz of Firwood - "There's that Bryan kid hitting golf balls off his driveway" - it would actually be kind of cute if it wasn't so inherently dorky. But I didn't care. I was playing with Jack and we were having a grand time. However, it did cause me some grief on the playground - "Hey! Arna Palmer! You gonna go play your stooopid game after school? Gimme your lunch money twerp." But you want to know the delicious irony of that experience? Those same kids that were chastising me then were asking for golf lessons from me 25 years later - "What's that John? You blew out your knee playing high school football and now you're taking up golf? That's a shame. What's that - can I teach you to play golf?"

And after I laughed my ass off, I did.

Acting Single

So I had an office chat this morning with a coworker, when she asked an innocent question - “How was your weekend?” I replied that it was good, did a couple of fun things like play a poker tournament on Friday night and went to a concert downtown Saturday night. I finished off my recitation with the statement, “I acted single.”

The reason for using this phrase is multi-fold. For one, I am single. For two, I sometimes have to remind myself of that since I am at an age where it is somewhat unusual to be single. And for three, I am not presently in a relationship. I don’t even own a dog. It’s just me.

And I am good with that - for the most part. This story is not intended as a self-pity nobody-loves-me mushdrama. I enjoy the construct of my life, or at the very least, have come to accept it. I have learned that relationships cannot be artificially forced & wished. They just happen…or don’t. In my case it’s the latter. And I am good with that.

But that doesn’t mean that I don’t have my moments. And invariably these moments are the weekends, specifically weekend evenings. As I was explaining to my coworker, who is married, when you are married you are presumed to spend time with your spouse, and that the activity is secondary - whether it’s going to a concert or watching reruns on TV, you do them together. That’s sort of the essence of the marriage - two make one. I obviously do not have that dynamic to be concerned about.

I live in a big city. Orlando. Always something going on, and while it is a great place to raise kids for the obvious benefits of all the activities targeted towards children, it is also a pretty cool place for single people. Lots of bars, a vibrant downtown, clubs, many opportunities to socialize. And it is this realization, coupled with being single, that presents, well, challenges. I cannot, in good conscience, sit and watch Lockup Raw on MSNBC on Saturday night with this playground outside my front door. If I do, I end up hating myself when the light of Sunday morning comes through my bedroom window.

So I go. And I do. If for no other reason than to shut up that nagging voice in my head.

One of these days this dynamic will possibly change. I may meet someone, we may fall in love, and then two will become one. I have been there before and it was enjoyable. I guess my goal, until then, is to be just as enjoyable with the situation as it presently is. And that is, I guess, one of the messages I am trying to impart here. Life can't be forced. It can't be constructed. Well, it can, but I believe the results are not natural. The older I get the more I have come to embrace this way of living - life has to be natural. That is not to say you cannot have dreams and desires, and further it is not to say to don't try to achieve them. It is more a statement of acceptance.

I was talking to my dear friend Dawn the other day & she asked me what my plans for the upcoming weekend were. I said well, I’m going to play poker Friday night, play golf Saturday morning, take a nap, hit downtown Saturday evening, probably wash my car Sunday & watch the golf tournament Sunday afternoon. Now that’s acting single.

I usually end my stories with some kind of coda. A meaning, some glimpse at wisdom that passed through my brain & got caught in the synapses and took residence. In this case, I am not sure what that wisdom would be, other than this - enjoy your life, whatever the circumstances, and don’t complain about it.

Because really, nobody cares. Except you. And that’s who you wake up to every day.

My Boss, the Chicken Farmer

I have a job that can be quite stressful. Many of my work days are running from one crisis to another on top of managing a number of projects and overseeing the work of four planners. I absolutely love it. But like anyone, I seek down time and pursue activities that divorce my mind from the complexities and chaos of my work environment. I play golf, bang on drums, play poker, write, surf the internet. Those are my distractions.

My boss raises chickens.

To be more precise, free-range chickens.

We work in downtown Orlando. Big city. Traffic whizzing by on I-4 right outside our window. When my work day is done, I retire to my apartment in Altamonte Springs, about 9 miles from downtown. Tony, my boss, goes to his home in DeBary, about 25 miles away, and moves chicken coops. Because, as I have found out, that is the “free” aspect of “free-range” chickens. I have learned a lot from Tony about the proper way to raise chickens.

So, many evenings, as I am sitting in a dive bar somewhere in Orlando trying to catch my inside straight on the river to take down another poker player or figuring out how to finesse a 7-iron to a sucker pin placement, my mind diverts to the thought of Tony, after a hard day’s work supervising me and the other planning managers, chasing chickens around. This mental image brings a smile to my face.

Tony was born and raised (on the free range?) in Iowa. He’s a farm boy. There is a term I have heard - ‘Gentleman Farmer’ and I have to admit that I am not totally sure what it means. But for Tony it is a perfect phrase. He is a farmer, and he is a gentleman. Unflappable, friendly, patient, intelligent, calm, collected. Tony has a large role in our company and has to juggle a myriad of projects and responsibilities. He moves with ease from one subject to the next, showing an aplomb rarely found, but naturally emanating from him.

And he also raises chickens! I’m sorry, but I just have to chuckle at that.

Tony was telling me how one day, as the chickens were out free-ranging, he moved the coop. Because that is, as I have found out, how free-range chickens have to be raised in order to be free - you let them cavort about, feeling the freedom of their chicken lives, and presumably there is a quality introduced in their lives that makes for…tastier dinners later on, I guess. But anyway, he moved the coop. And when the chickens returned, being, well, bird brains, they could not find the coop…Tony moved it about a hundred feet. And he is relating this story with a huge smile on his face, a gleam in his eye and a chuckle in his voice - he duped his chickens.

So why am I writing this story? Because I think Tony’s choice of recreation can be a source of solace for those of us that are having a rough day. If you are finding life being a rough slog, maybe the spouse is nagging at you or the kids are being recalcitrant, picture Tony W, LYNX Director of Planning, chasing his chickens around.

I bet you’ll smile.