Off The Fairway

(Writer's note: Over the past few months I have been writing a novel. The following is the opening excerpts.)

“Man, it’s hot,” Shakes said to Billy.

It was a typical Midwestern summer afternoon. Uncomfortably muggy. Air you wear.

Billy Edwards was toweling down his face for what seemed like the umpteenth time as he strode up the eighteenth fairway at the Bear Creek Country Club in Joplin, Missouri. On this Saturday, Billy had played himself into earshot of the lead in the Show Me State Open with a bogey-free six under par. He knew that one more birdie and he would post a very satisfying 65, which would put him one shot behind the leader and playing alongside him the next day with the title on the line. Right where I want to be, thought Billy. I can stare down Phillips, and then take him down.

Phillips was Freddie Phillips, three-time winner on the tour already this year, gunning for his fourth win and first-place on the Tour’s money list. The $800,000 first prize would all but assure that. Phillips was already in the clubhouse with an up-and-down round of two under 70. His four-shot lead at the beginning of the day could shrink to one if Billy could coax one more putt to fall.

As Billy approached the green the gallery reactively began to applaud. But it was not the typical enthusiastic swelling applause reserved for the, well, Freddie Phillipses of the tour. It was more of a courtesy applause given to a player who is not a fan favorite. Instead was a begrudging way to acknowledge a talented person doing their talented thing.

Billy recognized it. “Fuck them. I’ll get them back on my side,” he snarled under his breath as he doffed his cap to the crowd with a tight smile that more resembled a grimace.

He then turned his attention to his 18-foot birdie putt. With the assist of Shakes, his weathered, much-younger-than-his-face-showed caddy, they got the read down. Two balls outside right lip, cup speed. Don’t get frisky with it, die it into the hole. Billy went though his pre-shot routine permanently hard-wired into his psyche via rote repetition. Two practice swings. Deep breath. Place the Ping B-60 putter behind the ball; look at the hole, back to the putter, back to the hole, back to putter. Keep the head still. Swing.

The putt came off exactly as Shakes instructed; two balls outside the right lip of the hole. For the longest time it looked like it would stay like that, not taking the break but sliding by on the right. Then in the last three feet the ball, almost on command, broke hard to the left and tracked into the dead center of the hole.

“Like it had eyes,” said Shakes.

The applause was sudden, powerful. Billy gave his trademark fist-slam move, where he started his hand at his temple and brought it down hard and fast, as if he was hammering a nail. He let out a “Fuck yeah!” that was, fortunately for him, drowned out by the crowd. Retrieving the ball from the cup, he turned to the crowd, took off his cap, and mouthed a ‘Thank You’ as his playing partner finished out. Shakes came over and gave him a well-deserved hard handshake that Billy responded to equally. It was as if Shakes’ handshake was saying Great stroke, and Billy’s was saying No…great read, Shakes. Such was their relationship – one of mutual admiration and trust.

Walking to the scorer’s tent through a line of fans, most were supportive. “Great round Billy! Take down Freddie tomorrow! Billy Edwards is back!” But there were also a couple of wiseasses interspersed. “We’ve seen this before Billy…How you gonna eff this one up, Cuz?”

Billy was used to it all – the good and the bad. And besides, he was just trying to get to the scorer’s tent so he could post his 65, answer a few questions in the press tent then just relax. He signed his card and then took a look at the scoreboard that indeed confirmed he stood one stroke behind Phillips. He talked to a few reporters outside, and then decided he was going to hit the range for about an hour, take the courtesy car back to the hotel, order room service and get plenty of rest. Tomorrow was going to be a big day.

When he got to the range he pulled the cell phone out of his golf bag that had been shut off since before teeing off that morning. A few voice messages, a couple of texts. But there was one that caught his eye, and it totally entranced him –

Nice round. Gonna need anything tonight?

That was when Billy knew he had no chance to win the Show Me State Open.

¨¨¨

“Left turn…five hundred feet ahead,” intoned the cheerfully robotic female voice from the GPS on Billy’s courtesy Buick. “Your destination is on the right.”

Billy looked up to see a church built what appeared to be at least a century ago – Queen of Peace Catholic Church, in the heart of Charlotte, North Carolina. This is stupid, Billy thought, as he eased the Buick into a parking spot just as another thought hit him, No, you’re the stupid one. Just get this over with. Billy had a lot of voices going on in his head which created, at times, a cacophonous din which he pleaded to stop but could never make do so.

Getting out of the car, he referred to the meeting guide he printed off the website. Yep, this is the place. Next to the building stood about ten people who were smoking cigarettes and laughing. Fucking alcoholics with their chain-smoking, said the judgmental voice that seemed to be a permanent part of Billy’s chorus of cranial critics.

Attached to the meeting guide was a slip of paper that resembled an affidavit – I _____ hereby vouch that I attended the ____ meeting of Alcoholics Anonymous on this ____ day of ____, with a space below for a signature.

I should just forge this fucker and hit the closest bar, said the destructive voice. Dude, just do this. It won’t hurt you. Besides, Halsmith isn’t going to let you play this week if you don’t, said the rational voice. Fuck Halsmith, that paper-pushing hack who couldn’t break par on tour so he kissed ass to become tour commissioner, said the judgmental voice.  Hate him if you want, Billy Boy, but he’s got you by the balls, said the logical voice. Maybe I could call some guys who could fix this for me said the dope fiend voice.

            After all sides were heard from, Billy walked into the church.

“Good evening! Welcome to Alcoholics Anonymous!” chirped an obese elderly lady whose body resembled a bowling ball. Her hand was stuck out, demanding to be grasped. “Uh Hi…” mumbled Billy, as he shook her hand. “Where’s the coffee?”

“Why, it’s right around the corner, hon. Make yourself at home, and keep coming back!” Billy blurted out a “Yeah, okay” without taking the time to explain to the Human Ebonite that he was only here for the week, and he was about to put Charlotte in his rear-view mirror. The next stop was Memphis.

But first he had to take care of business if he wanted to see the first tee at Memphis. He had to get that paper signed.

The meeting began with a man who was probably in his mid-fifties but looked much older, pounding a gavel. “All right, let’s settle down. My name is Frank and I am an Alcoholic.” A dutiful chorus of “HI FRANK” resonated from the fifty or so people in attendance. A young man in his twenties read from a blue book. An attractive woman with way too much makeup read from a laminated document, “Rarely have we seen a person fail who has thoroughly followed our path…”

When she finished Frank then spoke, “Do we have any newcomers or visitors in attendance?”

Billy could feel the eyes move towards him even though his head was down. He was filtering through the various thoughts his cranial chorus was spitting out. Realizing the uncomfortable pause, he looked up and saw the eyes were trained on him.

“Oh, uh, hello, my name’s Bill…Billy.”

The pause continued. The group wanted more.

“Oh yeah, I uh, I’m an Alcoholic.”

That prompted some chuckles, the dutiful “HI BILLY!” and a couple of “Keep coming back” well-wishers. Billy’s mind went into hyper-drive. Fucking sheep, was the first thought that crossed his mind as he forced a thin smile.

Frank then spoke. “Okay. Welcome Billy. Now, does anyone have a topic for tonight’s meeting?” followed by another long pause.

What the fuck, thought Billy, Don’t these people have anything to say? You mean they get together in the piece of shit church basement and chant their shit, read their propaganda, then fucking look at each other? How in the fuck am I supposed to get anything out of this? What’s the fucking point of all this? When can I get this God-DAMN paper signed?

Frank then broke the silence. “Maybe our newcomer would like to say a few words,” as the gazes were trained back on Billy. Taken aback by the interruption to his stream of unconsciousness, Billy was not prepared.

“Uh, no, that’s okay. I am just visiting…”

Frank wasn’t satisfied. “Where are you from Billy? What brings you to AA?”

Tell this half-inflated basketball head to go fuck himself, said the angry voice in Billy’s head. Nah, make up some shit, said the egomaniac. Billy, filtering through all this, finally said “Uh yeah. I am in town for a tournament…a golf tournam…well, I mean, I’m not from here…”
“OOH! You’re a professional golfer?” asked Bowling Ball Lady.

“Yes. Yes I am. Anyway, you asked why I am here. To be honest, I am here to get this paper signed,” as Billy pulled the affidavit from his pocket. That elicited laughter from the crowd. Tell these inbred yokels to jam it up their ass sideways, said vindictive voice. Calm down, keep your cool, said inside the gallery ropes voice.

“Ah, the old nudge from the judge eh?” said Frank.

Billy looked puzzled, and then he got it. “Oh, uh no, It’s not like that. Commissioner Halsmith is making me attend these meetings in order for me stay on the tour. Last month I withdrew from a tournament in New Orleans because I was…”

The group had turned their collective attention towards Billy and he realized it. He was about to say he was arrested for attempting to buy cocaine from an undercover cop, showed up the next morning for his 7:43 a.m. tee time, played the first nine holes in six over par and was forced to withdraw by the rules officials.

“…Because I was hung over.”

Two days after the arrest in New Orleans Billy got a letter from Commissioner Halsmith’s office, informing him to be at his office that Tuesday. It was at that meeting that Halsmith gave Billy one more chance, informing him that he had the authority to suspend him from the tour, or to banish him outright. He could have told Billy to go make his living over in Europe – there was no room on this tour for a player with the issues he has. But Halsmith didn’t do that. Instead, he required Billy to go through counseling followed by regular AA meeting attendance. He also made it clear this was the final chance. One more questionable tournament withdraw, one more outburst, one more report from any volunteer at any event that Billy was anything but totally professional and you can try to scrape out a living on the Australasian Tour…if they will have you.

Billy got the message, kind of. Like a good addict he knew when his back was against the wall and that it was time to fly straight. So the outbursts stopped. But Billy had found another way to feed the beast, and it was a brutally simple one. Just play bad. Purposely miss the cut. Not that he could do that forever, but he had enough money in his bank account to last at least a year out on the tour. So what if he bagged it a couple of times? Guys miss cuts all the time.

So here he was in Charlotte, at an AA meeting, trying to explain to people he didn’t know why he was there.

So he lied. Billy was an expert at lying.

Frank thanked Billy for sharing and then turned to the group. “Okay I think we have a topic for the meeting. Let’s talk about denial.”

Denial?!? thought Billy. Was that some kind of slap at me, you fuckface? I will come across this motherfucking table at you so fast that you will not know what hit you.

What Billy didn’t realize was that Frank was a four-handicap golfer and an ardent follower of the tour. He knew who Billy was. He also knew of the arrest in New Orleans so he knew Billy wasn’t just hung over. Frank was also a volunteer at the tournament that Billy was playing in that week. He was actually honored to have Billy at the meeting and was holding back the urge to ask him for an autograph.

Frank was also sober for fifteen years and could smell bullshit from a mile away, and Billy was reeking of it.

At the end of the meeting, Billy took his paper up to the podium to be signed. Realizing he had a moment alone, Frank seized the opportunity and said, “U.S. Amateur Champion Billy Edwards. It’s an honor.” Billy was almost embarrassed by that, but was also buoyed with pride. “I still remember how you came from four down in the morning match to dust off Angel Hernandez in the finals three and two. That approach you hit to the sixteenth was a thing of beauty.” Billy stumbled out thanks. Frank continued. “What in the hell happened, Billy? Everyone thought you were the next great thing. Well hell, the fact you’re in an AA meeting I can guess what happened. I read the papers. Did you really punch that waiter in Portland? Ah never mind. Look, here’s my phone number. Call me anytime, but preferably before you take a drink, okay?”

Billy said sure. He put the signed paper in his shirt pocket and left the church.

On his way out he threw Frank’s phone number in the trash.

Dee’s New Digs

My mom went to her new home today. An alter care facility in Brimfield, Ohio, specializing in people with Alzheimer’s or dementia. My sister called me today to give me the derails.

My first thought was one of shame. My mom lives in Brimfield? Brimtucky?

I’ll get over it.

Anyway, it sounds like a nice place. She has a private room just off of the nurse’s station. My sisters went to mom’s house and got her the comforts of home – skeins of yarn, packs of smokes and, knowing mom, a rolling pin.

Hey, she’s Italian. They don’t speak with their hands. They speak with their rolling pins.

I asked my sister what kind of activities they have at the facility. She said lots – crafts, exercise, music…and bingo.

Hoo boy. Bingo. Mom’s an accountant, and she looooves her some bingo. Her and I used to go to bingo at the AA meeting place in Cuyahoga Falls on Monday nights, and mom was one of those people who brings half of their belongings and sets them around their space, marking their territory – daubers, good luck charms, cigarettes, pictures. That woman could keep up with 30 cards and a numbers barker on speed like no one’s business. She would smack-dab those cards then lean over and start dabbing mine that I couldn’t get to.

Black-belt bingo babe.

Mom is, obviously, adjusting. Having dementia, she slips in and out of lucidity, and from what I hear; the times she’s not with us are great fun. She’s skinny-dipping at the blue hole in Peninsula, playing golf with my dad (who died 15 years ago), sitting at an AA meeting bitching about the loud drunks in the back of the room. She wonders where long-dead people went when they were talking to her a minute ago. There are also heart-wrenching moments of ‘When can I go home?’ where she doesn’t realize she is home. Her new home.

But she is comfortable and will eventually acclimate to her new surroundings. And she is going to make new friends and crochet them each an afghan.

And kick their asses in bingo.

Y’all been warned.

What Will Happen

The last weekend before the presidential election.

And there was a collective “THANK GOD” heard around the country.

Myself included. Our presidential elections have become nothing more than big money driven dueling campaigns of attacks, distortions…and lying.

In fact, you can tell which side is losing by the amount of lies being tossed out there. And in this case it is the Romney campaign throwing out such whoppers like Obama took Detroit into bankruptcy and forced Jeep to ship jobs to China.

Wrong. One both counts. But don’t take my word for. Ask the president of Chrysler/Jeep.

Anyway. Come this Tuesday, after the polls close, the electoral votes will be determined.

And Obama will be re-elected.

Not because I say so, or even wish so, but because the math will say so. Romney would have to do a serious and damn near impossible needle-thread of winning every toss-up state – Ohio, Florida, Virginia, Wisconsin, New Hampshire, Iowa and Nevada – to win the White House. And that’s not going to happen. Obama is up 5 points in Ohio, 8 in Wisconsin, and ahead in a few of the others of those seven battleground states. If Obama wins Ohio and Wisconsin, the election is over. Romney has to win all seven to even have a chance.

That is our electoral college. That is how we elect the president. Romney may actually win the popular vote, like Gore did in 2000, but it won’t matter.

Being a Democrat, I am not gloating. Truly. But I will admit I am relieved. I firmly believe a Romney presidency would be Dubya Redux. He has surrounded himself with the same power players GW Bush had around him – Rice, Senor, Bolton to name a few. And Romney is malleable enough to acquiesce to their wishes. It would be the Return of the Neocons.

But aside from my relief, here is what I truly wish will occur after Obama’s victory:

I hope everyone will realize he didn’t win due to Acorn or voter fraud.

I hope everyone will realize he didn’t win due to ‘Black Guilt’.

I hope the ridiculous right wing-nut talk about him not being an American citizen will end.

I hope everyone will realize he is not a Muslim.

These things I hope.

And these things, I doubt will occur.

Because there will always be a block of people that simply cannot accept that he is president, now a re-elected one. These are the ‘We Want Our Country Back’ people. The people that think 2008 was some kind of ‘give’ to the minority by allowing a black man to become president. The people that think someone ‘took’ their country from them.

These kinds of people are dangerous.

Why? Because they think the system only works if either their guy becomes president or their guy is white. There was, and there is, no conspiracy. Obama’s victory in 2008, and his impending one in 2012, is the result of our system working as designed. If you don’t like that design, then change it. But he wasn’t elected because he was black.

The reason I voted for him – twice – has nothing to do with skin color. It has to do with competence and results. He promised certain things he would do if elected…and then he did them – health care reform, ending the war in Iraq, ending don’t ask don’t tell.

Now, debate what he did or didn’t do all you want, then go vote for whoever based on those debates. Choose the person you want for president based on those kinds of factors. That is how it is supposed to be done. I don’t think Romney is a bad or evil man; I just don’t like his policies and I think he’s an empty suit who will be easily persuaded to do things by those he surrounds himself with, whereas I believe Obama is a far more principled man who will do what he says he will do. He has, and he will. That’s why I’m voting for him. All I ask is for each person to at least try to give your vote that level of analysis then pick the one you want. Avoid the lies and distortions.

But if your man loses, do not claim conspiracies.

Just accept that the majority has spoken, like it did in 2008.

The Reassuring Chuckle

My mother is dying.

In checking my blog stories, I realized I’ve written about mom and the state of her health, which recently has taken a serious decline, a few times now. Here are a couple -

http://zipsclips.blogspot.com/2011/08/twilight.html

http://zipsclips.blogspot.com/2008/12/world-according-to-dee.html

Right now she is in a Palliative Care unit of a local hospital. Her dementia has progressed to the point that she doesn’t know she is in a hospital, which is the beautiful thing about palliative care; it doesn’t look like a hospital room. No medical equipment, no meds in view. Far as mom knows, she’s on a nice vacation in a nice room.

Which is exactly where we want her mind to be.

Her mind is now at a point where people long dead have visited her. She’s perplexed that Kenny, my brother, is not sitting on the couch talking to her when a few minutes ago she swore was there. Which would be kind of tough since Kenny is here in Florida and my mom is in Ohio. But at least she is now in a place where she can just relax and let her mind go wherever it wants.

Being the youngest, mom likes to sound brave when I talk to her. And, thank goodness, whenever I call she knows it’s me. I consciously test this each time I call. When she answers, I just say “Hello there,” without giving my name, and she always replies “Well hello, son.”

And then she gives me that reassuring chuckle.

It’s a delightful little sound which gives off the message of, ‘I’m doing just fine; it’s just a thang. Don’t worry about me.’

Oh, but I do. Or I should say, I did. She’s now in a place where she is safe and she’s comfortable. I don’t have to worry about her lighting a cigarette on the gas stove anymore, her grey hair hanging precariously close to the open flame. Going back home is not going to happen – she can no longer take care of herself.

She also has stopped taking her meds. Which is fine, as the palliative care staff does not make patients take them. They are there to manage pain, and if mom is in pain she will take something to ease it. But blood pressure meds, heart meds, meds for the sake of taking meds? She’s done with that.

Cue the reassuring chuckle.

Aside from the obvious emotional trauma of watching a loved one slowly die, and dementia is way too long of a death, it has almost been, and I hesitate to use this word but I will – fascinating – to watch. To watch a woman who was the smartest person I have ever known, who could balance million-dollar corporate budgets to the penny while raising four fantastic kids, to watch her mind atrophy to the point where she does not know where she is and is imagining people that aren’t there is, well, fascinating.

Cue the reassuring chuckle. I inherited it.

Sometimes the reassuring chuckle is akin to whistling past the graveyard. Mom knows how bad it has gotten. But she will never level with me on that. Being the baby she has to appear strong to me. I, of course, know how bad it has gotten, so when she gives me the reassuring chuckle it comes across differently now – it comes across as a mother being motherly. Parents do not let their kids worry about them – it’s their job to worry about us.

Which, until the day she dies, is what she will do. Unfortunately (or maybe thankfully), that day will be very soon for mom. She is in a comfortable place now, and old dead friends are visiting her. She is happy.

Chuckle.

My God, What Is Going On?

Remember that horrible song from the 1980s, The Politics of Dancing? Here, let me make you hate me –

Ah, the eighties. Those banal toe-tapping synth-tinged ditties that combined words like ‘politics’ and ‘dancing’ into the same sentence. Fun.

Those days are long gone. Now we have – are you ready –

The politics of rape.

Somehow, this presidential election, the one that was supposed to be about jobs, has been (not surprisingly) hijacked by tinheaded Neanderthal men on the far right who can’t seem to help themselves but to wade into the swamp of what constitutes rape.

You have Todd Akin talking about what is ‘legitimate’ rape. You have Richard Mourdock talking about how, if a woman is raped and gets pregnant, that it’s God’s will.

And what both these knuckleheads have in common is, one, they’re Republicans. And two, they’re men.

Here’s my view. To begin with, if you are running for political office, I don’t want to hear what you think about rape. It redefines the term irrelevant. Ah, but it is relevant, because these guys also want to make abortion illegal. And if you want to make abortion illegal, you have to wade into inanity (and into women’s uteri) and state what abortions you would let stand. And that’s where rape comes in, since some want to allow abortion in the instances of incest, health of the mother…or rape.

So they now have to discuss what is, ahem, ‘legitimate’ rape or what God intended.

It bears repeating at this point – these men are running for public office. An office that, should they be elected to, should be used for representing their constituents. And my guess is, about half of their constituents are women.

But they are men. Which brings me to my second point. Men should be disqualified from even chiming in on this issue. Unless they’ve been raped. Chances are they weren’t.

Now, I am not naïve. This is all about a party platform that is chained like an anchor to making abortion illegal. Anchor is a good analogy. Because it will sink them.

Why? Because we are talking about governing, not morality. What a woman decides to do with her body is her business and whomever she wants to bring into the discussion. People like her pastor or parents.

Not a fucking politician.

There are a couple of tangential issues here that really grate me. The first of which is invoking ‘God’ into any political discussion. I don’t give a damn what a politician’s religious beliefs are – they are irrelevant to performing the job. You don’t need strong faith to pass a budget or shepherd a bill through committees. I am beyond sick of hearing about how strong a politician’s faith is. What I want to know is, how good of a politician he or she is, because that is what they are being elected to do. Pray on your own time.

The other issue is this unquenchable thirst that male politicians have in wanting to tell women what they can or cannot do. Which brings us back to abortion. I have a real simple question to any politician that wants to make abortion illegal, and it’s this –

How much time in jail should the woman get for having an illegal abortion?

Because, Mr. Akin (and Ryan and Romney), you can try to make abortion illegal, but you will never eliminate abortions. They will happen, legal or not.

So again – how much time in prison for the women?

And don’t give me ‘We will only put the doctors that perform them in jail, not the women.’ Uh huh. And we only incarcerate drug dealers and not drug users, right?

Republicans have painted themselves into an ideological corner by doggedly holding onto an issue that our Supreme Court decided almost forty years ago. The highest court in the land had its say on the matter. And not to mention that you are pissing off half the electorate by inserting your views into their private parts.

It has been decided. So move on to something that is actually relevant.

That is, if they can actually be relevant.

I doubt they can.

Secure Our Borders!

This country has a real problem. A 2,000-mile unsecured border, where the inhabitants of the neighboring country can just waltz in unchecked. They can then assimilate into communities where they are absorbed and invisible. They are stealing our jobs.

Damn Canadians.

Oh, you forgot about that border? Then look at a map – I am shocked that the residents of Maine, New Hampshire, Vermont, New York, Michigan, Minnesota, North Dakota, Montana, Idaho & Washington aren’t outraged. The God-forsaken Canadians wither their ‘eh’ accents are milling ‘aboot’ with us born-here Americans. They can’t even speak English correctly!

Something has to be done about this.

I propose an electrified fence reinforced with a moat. In the winter the moat will freeze, so it has to be artificially heated. We have to keep these people out to uphold the integrity of our sovereignty. I also propose a ban on Canadian bacon and hockey. And Molson beer. Cost is no object – who cares what the fence and moat will cost? There are things far more important that money. National security, for example.

Wait, what? You’re telling it’s only the Mexican border you want fortified? You’re good with Ice Farmers infiltrating our country but not those dirty Beaners?

Why?

Is it because they don’t look like us? Is it because they speak a different language? Oh yeah, I forgot – it's because they’re taking our jobs. Good thing no Canadians are doing that. Right, Detroit? I'm sure no Canucks are coming over the bridge from Windsor to work in your factories.

Most likely the reason Mexicans are coming to the U.S. is because their country is such a shithole that they want to come to a better place? That’s probably it. Seems I recall that was the rationale of the Germans, Irish, and Italians who came here around the beginning of the twentieth century, and later, the Cubans and Haitians - the want for a better life.

“Ah, but those people came here legally! Mexicans didn’t!”

Well no shit. I don’t think anyone swam across the Atlantic. European immigrants had to come over on boats. Boats that just so happen delivered them to a processing center on Eliis Island or Key West. In contrast, Mexicans have to wade thru a waist-deep 100-foot wide river to get here.

My point in all this is, one, we are a nation of immigrants. The only “Native” Americans we forced onto reservations after we stole their land. And two, a Mexican wading across the Rio Grande is no less noble in his cause than an Italian taking a steamer to Ellis Island. Both left their homeland for a sight-unseen land and a tacit promise of a better life. Look at it this way – were those Italians all documented when they hit our shore? Uh, no. They crammed into the steerage compartments of whatever boat was sailing west - without papers. Which, by the way, is where the derogatory term "Wops" came from to refer to Italian immigrants. They were undocumented - With Out Papers. They were 'illegally' entering the country.

I know the next argument – “That was a different time! America needed that labor as part of the Industrial Revolution. Mexicans aren’t needed now.”

Tell that to the residents of Brownsville, El Paso and San Diego. And while we’re at it, I bet if you went to El Paso you would find fifth-generation Mexican-Americans whose great-great-great grandfathers, uh, swam across the Rio Grande. They are descendants of illegal immigrants.

So where am I going with all this? Couple of things. One, our history cannot be denied, and two, our country shouldn’t be denied to those who want to come here. While it would be nice to have an orderly, documented, ‘legal’ flow of immigrants to our country, geography simply does not make that possible. We got those two unsecured borders, ya know.

So for anyone who decries what is happening at our southern border while ignoring the northern one is either a racist or a hypocrite. You can’t ‘selectively’ secure only one border, which just happens to be the border with the country with people who don’t look like us or talk like us.

Unless you’re a xenophobe.

Which you are.

Holy Crap I’m Getting Old

I just finished a very interesting weekend. I drove two hours south of Orlando to meet with my 18-year old son and his mom to discuss college. College!

It wasn’t that long ago that I mastered how to change his diaper on a dresser top by holding him in place with my foot as I grabbed a Pampers with my right hand & a body wipe with the left.

And there’s the first slap of reality. It was that long ago. Seventeen years ago in fact. Somewhere in between I went from a wide-eyed new dad trying to understand the world of child-rearing to a mid-fifties aging geezer more concerned about how in the fuck I am going to retire in eleven years than which college my son is going to attend.

Yeah, I know, that last sentence seemed rather self-centered. More concerned about myself than my son? What kind of dad am I for thinking that way?

Well, a pretty good one, if you ask me. Elaboration – Nick is talented. He is at a magnet art school where 87 percent of the graduates receive scholarships. Nick is intelligent. He knows what he likes and what he doesn’t. He doesn’t need to be told what to do anymore…he just needs informed.

And that’s what my role as father has morphed to. I’m an informant.

And I’m good with that. That’s what I should be. I have to, and I do, respect that Nick is now an adult (legally at least), and we are now at a point where he has to make his own decisions. His choice of college is his decision. Of course, there are limitations; he’s not going to Harvard, and that’s where his mom and me enter the picture – a sobering dose of fiscal reality. But it is still his decision. And as he moves on from here, I look forward to a role of taking his phone calls, slipping him a twenty when he needs it, buying him a beer when he wants one, and imparting whatever the hell I have learned on him when he requests it…or even when he doesn’t.

His mom and I had long chats about Nick’s nature and whether he would be able to handle life at a college where he may not be near either one of us. She worries about that. I don’t. Because if that happens; if Nick goes to a school hundreds of miles from either of us, he will be handed daily doses of reality – his clothes won’t clean themselves. Nobody will cook his meals. He will have to do those himself.

And he should. Dude needs to learn – just like I did – that they ain’t shitting when they say to wash white separately. Wearing pink underwear that was white before washing teaches a better lesson than anything him mom or I could impart on him. In short, he has to grow up on his own. I will always love him. I will always be there for him.

But he has to do his own laundry.

On Sunday I met up with some old friends in West Palm Beach to watch the Cleveland Browns lose a football game. The President of the fan club just got married with a baby on the way. The vice president of the club showed up with his wife and two toddlers in tow. They are thirtysomethings with that wide-eyed look of ‘OMG I hope I know what I’m doing here’ on their faces.

That makes me smile. Been there, done that, got the Diaper Merit Badge.

Just don’t blink, guys. They grow up fast.

And the undeniable fact of life is, they grow up exactly when they need to.

A Letter to a Coward

Dear Thief:

Yes, I saw what you did.

When I got back to my car today after my round of golf in Fort Myers, I saw it missing.

And  yes, I am pissed off.

First off, who in the hell gave you the right to take anything off of my car? Keep your fucking hands off my property. Secondly, the magnetic Obama bumper sticker is also my property. You stole it. 

Now I am sure the bumper sticker had no value to you – it’s not like you took it so you could sport it on your car –it’s likely in a trash can somewhere. What is obvious is you didn’t appreciate me exercising my freedom of speech and expression, which is a right in this country, even for those who disagree with you. Especially, in fact, for those who disagree with you.

You are a thief. But moreso, you are a coward. And while I’m at it, you are a nutless, gutless piece of crap unworthy of the freedoms granted to our citizens. Thieves lose those freedoms. You're obviously a Republican, so you cherish those freedoms, remember? It's your party who is railing against Obama because, among other lies your party is purporting, he is taking away our freedoms.

You took away mine. The correct term is irony. Or hypocrite. Both fit.

Now, I am sure you are likely thinking I am overreacting. Perhaps. But it bears repeating – my car and what is on it is none of your fucking business. If you don’t like what I have on it, too fucking bad. Just consider yourself lucky I didn’t witness you taking it. Not that I would have picked a fight. I just would have slashed your fucking tires. We call that frontier justice – you deface my property, I deface yours.

My buddy Mike said to me, when I noticed it missing, ‘Hey, you’re in Republican Country here in Southwest Florida, Jer.’

No. I am apparently in intolerant douchebag country.

Anyway, I hope you got a few seconds of some kind of vicarious thrill out of sticking it to someone who doesn’t share your political views. Enjoy it while you can, because once this country speaks on November 4, your frustration will return when the president in reelected in a landslide.

But you will always be a nutless, gutless thief. 

Remembrance?

I was driving to work the other day. In front of me was a car that had one of those stenciled sayings on the back window. Due to my obsessive habit of tailgating, I got close enough to see the message – “In Memory of (name here), July 12, 1983 – August 27, 2008.”

Now. I have never (thank God) had to bury a child. I cannot comprehend the grief a parent must live with on a daily basis as a result. It has to be a constant, consistent burden that never really ends. My heart goes out to these people for having the fortitude to even get out of bed each morning and face a life that seems so grossly unfair.

But stenciling a reminder of their sorrow the window of their car?

I don’t get that, for a couple of reasons. For one, it just doesn’t seem appropriate. Again, I am not trying to tell anyone how to grieve, but is that a proper method of doing so? I mean, the parent obviously is already ‘in memory of’ the deceased – they sure do not need reminding. Which brings me to the second reason – what are they going after – reminding the rest of the world they lost a child? Is it their intent to let total strangers, like me, know of their unfathomable burden that will beset them the rest of their life?

Why would you even care what I think? I’m just a guy following you too closely on the highway.

Sure, when I saw that message, my first thought was, ‘That poor person,’ but just a couple of seconds later my thought shifted to, what are trying to accomplish with this message?

I am going to try to inject myself into their shoes for a moment. Let’s say my son died tragically. I go through the grieving process – denial, hating God, anger, compromise, then finally acceptance. Now, where would my mind be at after all that? I honestly do not know, but really, about the last thing I would think on doing is stenciling a reminder (to who?) of my loss.

My son’s mother lost her other child tragically to a drug overdose. He was 17. She channeled her grief into action – she took autopsy photos of him to schools and spoke to other 17-year olds on what would happen to them should they follow the same path her son did. I am sure she, by doing so, saved lives. She kept other mothers from the incomprehensible sorrow of having to bury their son or daughter. To me, that was a perfect way of her to express, process, channel…and help.

What does stenciling an epitaph on a window do, other than remind? Isn’t that what gravestones are designed to do? If you want a tangible reminder, why wouldn’t you visit the cemetery or look at the urn on the shelf? Why do you want it sitting there whenever you take the car to Publix to get some milk?

I just don’t understand.

Define Yourself

This is something I’ve been cogitating on for a while.

Who am I? And I don’t mean that on some kind of existential plane; I’m not floating out there on some kind of ether looking for enlightenment. I am on more solid footing with my query. What I mean is, how would you define yourself?

What are you proud of?

What do you want written on your gravestone?

How do want to be remembered?

Give this some thought, and while you do, I am going to give you the list of things I am very proud of with hopes that perhaps it will spur you to think likewise about yourself:

I absolutely, completely love golf. This love affair started when I was ten years old, and it torridly continues 43 years later. And I’m pretty good at it, presently sporting a 5 handicap. I shot a 72 two weeks ago.

Okay, enough bragging. My point for this inclusion is I found my passion early in my life, which, I feel, puts me ahead of the majority of the planet. Having an avenue to pursue your passion is essential in life and many find it in their career. And for those people, great. They probably make a lot more money than I do. But for those people I ask this – what do you do for fun? If work is your passion, doesn’t anything else seem, well, passionless? My point is I am extremely grateful that I found my passion young, and it was in something that I will be able to do for the rest of my life.

I am a yogi! This one is recent; I just started doing yoga less than a year ago, and what an eye-opener it was. I went into it trying to find something to do that involved moving muscles. I needed some kind of exercise in my routine, and the ‘gentleness’ of yoga appealed to me. A Groupon coupon later, and I had ten yoga sessions for thirty bucks. Ten months later and I do it twice a week without fail.

Yoga has changed my life. For many it is a way of life. I’m not to that level, but I am definitely hooked. It is an experience that you always, without fail, come out of feeling better than when you went in. Namaste.

I am a writer. This has also been fairly recent, having started this blog about four years ago. I have one book published, which if I had a do-over, I would pull. I re-read parts of it the other day and it’s really kinda crappy. But I have evolved! I just finished a second book, this one a real book with a real story. And it’s real good. When this gets published you will agree.

I also don’t lack for confidence. But that doesn’t make my list here.

My point is that I found something I was good at and that I enjoy, somewhat late in life. Not that 53 is old, mind you, but it is a mirror-image to the golf thing – I found that young. This I found later, and it provides that same level of passion I feel when it hit a six iron on the screws.

Why am I proud to be a writer? Well, aside from the vicarious thrill of having people like what I write, it is this – it will outlive me. It will be my legacy. If I get hit by a truck tomorrow, this blog will still be here, as will my books.

And, finally, perhaps the most important thing I am proud of:

I am a good father. My son is now an adult, having turned 18 this past March, which is the ‘unofficial’ end of my main fatherhood duties. Yes I know it will be a lifetime job, and one that I regret not a single bit – I look forward to the coming years of helping him through college and to, hopefully, babysit grandkids. Helping to raise Nick has been the most satisfying thing I have ever done, and the results speak for themselves – he is a fine young man. Now the majority of the credit goes to his mother, and she deserves ten times more of it than I do. But I had a role, and I see it every time I am with Nick. He is me.

You will note nowhere on that list did I mention my job. I made a reference earlier to people who find passion in their work. Great. I truly am envious of those people, since they spend a large chunk of their time doing something they’re passionate about…and get paid for it. My job is not something I have a passion for. It’s something I’m good at.

But this is not supposed to be a list of things I’m good at. It’s a list of things that excite me.

What’s on your list?

Metamorphosis In Four Minutes

So I am back to musing about rock and roll again.

What brought this about? Well, per usual, an inspirative spark. In this case it was my drive home from work Friday afternoon when I was wrung out from eight hours of meetings and dysfunction. My brain was done; there was no more for it to give, and my only thoughts were how to negotiate nine miles of I-4 and what I was going to buy at the grocery store…and even those thoughts were hard to cull.

So I plugged my mp3 player into my car’s stereo and hit shuffle. Here was the first thing that came up –

Fuck yeah.

Where two miles earlier I was trying to not fall asleep behind the wheel, I was transformed into a head-banging, energy-overloaded pool of Angst DNA. Instead of gently trying to maneuver my car through the morass of Orlando traffic, I became an urban warrior in an up-plated Humvee, daring people to take me on.

Don’t tell my insurance company.

This is the power of music, and specifically rock and rock. Sure, all genres of music have that power and I am not trying to dis them, but rock is my drug. Case in point – my dear friend is going through a break-up, and her way of dealing with it was an evening of Mike’s Hard Lemonade, Blake Shelton and Lady Antebellum. If she was sad before, she was damn near suicidal afterwards. So in this instance her choice of country music (I’m sure the alcohol had nothing to do with it, heh) enhanced the mood she was already in.

And hey, if that’s how she wants to roll, roll with your bad self. But speaking only for myself, if I am sad the last thing I want is something that enhances the sadness. And if I am happy, I want something that makes me continue to feel happy.

Now, I can hear your fingers typing – “Ministry, Jer? Really? That makes you happy?”

Yes. Yes it does.

Why? Because it – and rock music in general – demands you to be happy. Sure, there are exceptions to this; one that comes to mind is Mumford and Sons, as they tend to get me thinking too introspectively about opportunities lost and of better times. My son played M&S as we were driving the Niagara Falls last month, on the same day we decided to call in Hospice for my mom, and halfway through the second song I demanded my son to change it to Green Day. I was not having a real good day, and Little Lion Man kept reminding me about the traumatic decision my siblings and me had to make earlier that day.

I mentioned Green Day. Virtually all their songs make me happy. The only one that doesn’t is Wake Me Up When September Ends, which is as melancholy as Billy Joe Armstrong gets. My son told me he wanted that played at his funeral; well that pretty much killed that song for me. I can’t hear it now without thinking of the awful possibility that I may have to one day bury my son.

Sorry dude, that’s not going to be my job, it will be your job to bury me.

So back to being happy (Please!). If it’s Green Day, give me Holiday (“The representative from California has the floor” – awesome interlude).

“I beg to dream and differ from the hollow lies!”

Fuck yeah. Again.

Last point. I get this sometimes – “Doesn’t angry music, like N.W.O. or Holiday, make you angry, Jer?”

Nope. It makes me move. It instills an anthemic to-the-core beat deep in my bones that manifests itself in purposeful striding and increased blood pressure. It makes me feel alive.

So take that, Lady Antebellum. And take a little Helmet with ya -

Fuck. Yeah.

What We Have Sown

It happened again. This time it was a movie theater in Aurora, Colorado. The toll this time – 12 dead, 59 wounded.

Was the shooter disturbed, possibly deranged? Probably.

Was it tragic? Absolutely.

Was it shocking?

No.

If this shocks you, then my only question is, how many more incidents will it take for you to get over your shock? This is just the latest on a sad series of incidents, a series that is not going to stop, not any time soon.

This country is armed to the teeth. Many consider the Second Amendment sacrosanct. Any politician that even hints at proposing to limit access to guns is a targeted (pun intended) person. The NRA has a stranglehold-lock on our political process. Guns are as American as mom and apple pie.

Well, this is the result.

I know. Guns don’t kill people; people kill people…if guns are outlawed only outlaws will have guns…the vast majority of gun owners are responsible…

And on and on the excuses and rationalizations go. Do me a favor. Save them. I don’t need to hear them. I’ve heard them.

This is a lost cause. As much as I abhor guns, and, just for clarification, I have lived 53 years in this country, in large cities like Miami, Houston and Orlando without ever having to fire a gun, I can’t do anything about it. Except to express how much this sickens me. It sickens me that this is our value system – being armed to the teeth is an American value.

And I know this paints me as some kind of tree-hugging Liberal. What-fucking-ever. Label me however you want. I don’t care anymore.

Columbine. Virginia Tech. Gabby Giffords. George Zimmerman. Aurora. And those are just the more notable incidents. People have been shot down in churches, on playgrounds, in malls, in schools…and in movie theaters.

The defense is, these people are unstable!

Gee, you think?

But you have to understand something. In this country, unstable people have easy access to guns. That is the price we pay to pack heat. Now, I’m sure you, reading this, are a very responsible gun owner. Just understand something – this gives me no solace whatsoever. It is not you I am worried about.

It’s the next person who will spray bullets into a crowd that I may be a part of.

It will happen again.

And again. And do not tell me you’re shocked when this happens. That’s bullshit.

It’s inevitable.

My hope is one day enough people will have had enough of the slaughter in the name of ‘Rights.’ Remember, you have no rights. You have privileges granted to you by the people in power.

I only pray the privilege of owning a gun one day is relegated to the history books.

This latest incident in Aurora is not shocking. It’s collateral damage.

Get used to it.

Jack and Me

In my opinion, the fortunate people in this world are those who, a) have a hero, and b) have had the chance to meet them.

Consider me very fortunate.

I grew up in Ohio and at a very young age got addicted to golf. My first round was when I was ten years old, and my last round was, uh, two days ago. In between have been thousands of rounds, hundreds of golf books read, scores of golf vacations, three holes in ones, and one hero.

Jack Nicklaus.

When I was growing up, Jack was the king of the golf world, and he still holds the record for most major championships won – 18. Tiger was making a nice run at that record until he backed into a fire hydrant in 2009 and got a bit sidetracked. He may yet break Jack’s record, but as of right now, it’s Jack 18, Tiger 14. And should Tiger one day pass Jack’s record, sorry Eldrick, but Jack will still be the man, at least to me.

I have had three separate occasions to actually meet and converse with Jack, and not surprisingly, two of them were on the golf course -

1983 Ryder Cup, PGA National Golf Club, Palm Beach Gardens, FL – This was a watershed Ryder Cup; as the U.S. squad barely hung on to defeat the upstart European team, 14.5 points to 13.5 points. The outcome was not settled until Lanny Wadkins hit a pitching wedge to three feet from the hole on the eighteenth hole in his match. That shot halved the match and gave the Cup to the U.S. Jack was the captain of the U.S. team.

I was in the gallery along the eighteenth fairway when Lanny hit his shot. There was jubilation in the gallery as we knew his shot clinched the Cup. I then looked out in the fairway, and there was Jack in his Captain-mode, walkie-talkie in hand, shaking hands with well wishers offering their congratulations. The gallery ropes were down, so I took advantage of the opportunity and ran out to congratulate Jack. This was our exchange –

Me: “Jack, we sure could have used you out there today.”

Jack, in his too-high squeaky voice – “Oh I don’t know about that. I don’t think my nerves could have handled it.”

Me: “Yeah RIGHT!”

Jack: “Ha!”

Three years later those nerves were good enough for him to win his sixth Masters. 

1994 World Golf Championship, Doral Country Club, Miami – Greg Norman won this tournament in a runaway, but at one point in the third round, Jack was tied for the lead. I was, of course, in his gallery. Jack got to the tenth hole, a dogleg-left par 5 around a lake. The long hitters would try to cut the corner, but Jack was too tactical (and also 54 years old) to try that. I was standing right behind him and his caddy as they discussed the shot.

Jack, to his Caddy: “How far to the bunker on the right?”

Caddy: “258.”

Jack: Two fifty eight? You sure?”

Caddy, double-checking his notes: “Yep. 258.”

Jack: “Gimme the one-iron.”

Jack then proceeded to hit his one-iron directly at that bunker, purposely away from the water. The ball landed about ten yards short of the bunker, took a hop forward towards it, and then stopped on a dime, two yards short of it. Jack gave the club back to his caddy, and walked over to where I was standing.

Me: “One-iron, Jack?”

Jack: “Yeah, one-iron.”

Me: “Can’t hit it 258 anymore?”

He turned around and shot me a look, as if to say ‘I’d like to see you try, asshole,’ but then smiled at me. I just said “You’re the man, Jack.”

The final time I talked to him was by far the most rewarding. My good friend Chuck got me an invitation to the Boy Scouts annual banquet at the PGA National Resort (same location as the 1983 Ryder Cup). It was a suit-and-tie affair. I showed up, found Chuck, and said okay where is he? Chuck pointed over to Jack, and I shot over to just be near him. I asked someone if he could ask Jack if it would be okay to have a picture of the two of us. The man walked over to Jack, Jack looked at me and said, sure, c’mon over!

I turned into a star-struck goober.

As I walked up to him, all I could say was, “I named my son after you!”

Jack: “You named him Jack?”

Me: “No, Nicklaus!” (His name is actually Nicholas, but pronounced the same)

Jack: “How old is he?”

Me: “He’s 13 years old Mister Nicklaus sir…he’s in seventh grade and on the honor roll.”

Jack patted me on the back, said “Good job,” and shook my hand.

And that’s when the picture on this story was taken.

Jack’s the man. Always was, always will be.