Keep It Simple

What makes a great rock song?

Wow. That can be answered any of a number of ways. Memorable lyrics, power chords, anthemic feel…hard to answer, right?

Not for me. To me, the most memorable rock songs have had one key component. Simplicity. A catchy riff that anyone with a used six—string can pick up and copy.

Rock history is loaded with them. Bob Diddley gave us the Bo Diddley beat – that bomp-a-chong-a-chon…bomp bomp beat. The Kinks gave use the five notes the beginning of You Really Got Me – ba-DADA-duh-DAH, that has been copied by every aspiring garage band out there.

Now sure. Some great rock songs are more complex, and they’re equally great. But I was never a big fan of ‘Art Rock’ such as bands like Yes. I think they’re great, just not my cuppa tea. To this day I still can’t figure out the beat to Roundabout. Every time I think I got it I don’t. So while those complex songs are enjoyable to listen to, and to appreciate the innate complexity entailed in their construction, they are not the types of songs that aspiring rockers look to in order to copy. They are not memorable, or at least, memorizable.

So. Back to simplicity. There was a song that came out a couple of years back that caught my ear. Because it had that innate simplicity to it. So I started researching, which these days means I went to You Tube. It was there I discovered this –

THAT is a great rock song.

Seven notes. So memorable that the audience knows them & sings the notes.

Now, don’t confuse simple with easy. Jack White showed in that video why. You will note he played that entire song with one guitar. Tell me the first time you heard that song on the radio that you thought that was a bass guitar opening. I know I did. Jack then does ‘standard’ guitar for the verses, then amps it to slide guitar lead in the chorus. The same seven notes (with a G-A bridge). The crowd goes wild, he pauses, then repeats.

And that’s the catch. Simple to learn, hard to master. How many kids do you think heard that song & immediately went to their guitars to try to mimic? Well, Jack showed some old masters how he did it –

So add Jimmy Page and The Edge to the growing group that includes me (and thank you Dawn for turning me on to Jack) that think Jack White is on his way to Rock Legend status.

And they both owe him five bucks.

The Big Myth

I have a question.

What are your rights?

I have another question.

Who granted you those rights?

This is an interesting discussion. Luckily for me I have a blog in which I can expand upon the topic. And luckily for you, you can comment on. So let’s see how this goes.

To the first question. In this country we have a Bill of Rights, consisting of amendments to the U.S. Constitution. They spell out such rights as freedom of speech, the right to bear arms, to avoid false imprisonment, and so on. And they are to reflect the intent of the founding fathers.

But read that last paragraph again, specifically the sentence that the Bill of Rights were amendments to the Constitution. In other words, our founding fathers determined that clarification was needed as to what our rights as Americans were.

Which leads to the second question. And that answer is pretty simple – our founding fathers, though ratification and subsequent amendments, granted we Americans those rights. In other words, they came from those in power. From men.

This is a key point; because many believe our rights are ‘God-given’. They are not. They are Government-given. Look at it this way – if they were God-Given, then what does God have against North Koreans, since they have virtually no rights? Does God really believe that Americans should have the right of freedom of speech but North Koreans shouldn’t?

Bottom line – stop invoking God as it regards your rights. He has no part in it.

So hooray for America, right? We have been granted certain freedoms by our government, so what a wonderful place to live and be a citizen of, right?

Well sure. Compared to North Korea.

But American history is loaded with tinkering and downright ignoring of our supposed ‘rights’. Couple of cases in point – Google ‘Japanese Internment 1942’ and see what comes up. Our government imprisoned Americans who only had the misfortune of having Japanese parents. And since it was a time of war against Japan, our government felt an apparent – but never proven – issue of national security was an overriding ideal than false imprisonment.

So the protection against false imprisonment isn’t a “right”. It’s conditional.

Next. Google ‘Patriot Act’. You will find, that in the aftermath of 9/11 our government felt the threat of terrorism overrode the citizen’s right to privacy. They could – and can – wiretap your phone calls without your knowledge. And, like the Japanese Americans in 1942, you can be put in jail over what those wiretaps uncover. Indefinitely, by they way, since they can label you a 'Enemy Combatant' (you gotta love these labels), which through the Patriot Act rescinds your right to a speedy trial, or even any trial. You can sit and rot in jail for as long as the government feels you should be there. There's still a bunch of them at Guantanamo Bay.

So the right to privacy is conditional. As is a right to justice or a speedy trial.

The right to dissent? Google ‘Kent State University.’

And I haven’t even mentioned slavery, which was legal in this country for its first 90 years and which took a Civil War and a proclamation of emancipation by Abraham Lincoln. So our revered founding fathers thought that you had rights – if you were white. If you were a black slave, you were property. Subhuman. 

So spare me how wonderful our founding fathers were. They were a group of politicians that, through majority vote (not God), decreed us some privileges that needed amending, and, as our history has shown, can be revoked. And their ilk throughout our nation’s history have repeatedly brought our so-called ‘rights’ into play, and have decided, at times, we should not have some of them.

Therefore I offer this: We have no rights. 

Instead we have a malleable collection of privileges that are fluid, negotiable, and change based on whatever is happening at the moment, given to us by people in power who can change their minds when they see fit.

Now. Let’s get back to “God-given” rights. What exactly are those? And do not say life liberty and the pursuit of happiness, because I will invoke North Korea again – they are every bit as human as us but do not enjoy those rights.

No, the apparent ‘God-given’ rights have to be something more basic. The right to food? Nope. People are starving. The right to shelter? Nope. Homeless people. The right to live? Well, that’s closer, but millions have been killed in wars in ‘the name of God.’ So apparently God, or more accurately, those that invoke his wisdom sometimes believe we do not even have the right to live. The 9/11 terrorists certainly believed that.

So I would now offer this. There are no God-given rights.

There is, as I see only one right we have. Only one inalienable truth that cannot be rescinded by law or man or nature.

The right to die.

It is the only thing I can think of that will happen to everyone, and no amount of government fiat can change it.

Try and revoke that, politicians. 

Nicknames

I was walking down the hallway at work yesterday, when Reggie, the spiffily-dressed planner in my department saw me & said “J-To-The-B, wassup?”

J-To-The-B is Reggie’s nickname for me.

Which got me thinking. I have had a ton of nicknames throughout my life. Some people only have a couple, or maybe just one. Some poor souls never get one. Fortunately, I am not one of those people. If you are, drop me an email and I’ll give you one.

We like nicknames. It personalizes someone, makes them feel closer. I’m sure Reggie thinks ‘J-To-The-B’ gives us a secret little kinship. And he’s right. It does. But that’s because I like J-To-The B. It sounds cool, kinda hip. As I mentioned, I have had a lot of nicknames through the years. Some good, others, well…

My brother called me Nimrod.

My sister called me Ricky Retardo.

My dad called me Bud.

My new planner calls me Sir.

When I was a kid I wore a train engineer cap, and I got the nickname Chooch, as in Choo-Choo Charlie.

My ex-wife called me Jurr.

My yoga instructor calls me Writing Yogi

My son calls me Padre.

Guys on my high school golf team called me Hack Hack Plunk.

In middle school I was called Eddie Munster.

Some nicknames are contradictory, like calling a 350-pound guy ‘Tiny’. Others make no sense whatever, like, say, Weegie Thompson. I have no idea what a Weegie is. It’s not a Wedgie, as that’s something entirely different.

But nicknames are like jargon. It’s ‘Mystery Language’ that we embrace since it serves as a form of bonding, of familiarity. It’s a good thing.

Except that Ricky Retardo thing. Ugh.

Things I Used To Do

I was just sitting here musing about this fun trip I have been a part of for over 53 years now. You know, life.

And specifically, the wildly varied things I have done to keep from starving. Now, I went to college. Got two degrees, including an MBA. Just that alone would make some people conclude that my path has been a smooth upward climb to some cushy gig on Mahogany Row.

Uh, no.

Starts and stops. Interruptions for various personal reasons. Realizations that what I was trained to do I really didn’t want to do.

A not-complete list of my varied vocations includes the following:

·         Working in the produce department at a grocery store

·         Valet parking cars in Palm Beach

·         Raking traps at a golf course

·         Hosting a radio talk show on fantasy football

·         Pressure-cleaning roofs of houses

·         Texas Hold-‘Em poker dealer

·         Audio-visual technician

·         Running a sporting goods store

·         Professional golfer

·         Professional golf hustler

·         Transportation consultant

·         Computer trainee

·         Ran a transportation project that provided free trips Cuban refugees in Miami

·         Selling college alumni directories over the phone

·         Running a miniature golf course

·         Investment broker trainee

·         Insurance salesman trainee

…and those are the legal ones. All I can say to that is, a man has to pay the bills.

Now for the kicker. I do none of those things now. My career is in the mega-glamorous field of public transportation management. I design bus routes. I know…control yourselves. But it is a nice career, one I have been at for over 25 years now. And it is weird to think more of my career is behind me than in front of me. If things go according to plan (which they never do), I should retire in 12 years. Wow.

But my point in this little exercise is to show how unpredictable life can be. And since most of my story’s been written, I am thinking about my 18-year old, very talented son. He is an artist. Next year he will be accepting a scholarship somewhere and will be off to college in preparation for his career. Now, he seems extremely focused and appears to have a clear idea on what he wants to do. And I think that is wonderful.

I also think it is unrealistic.

Why? Because that’s life. You never know what’s around the corner.

And, really, ain’t that great?

I mean look. I think it’s wonderful that there are people who know at a very early age what they want to do with their lives, and further, have the means to achieve it. And for my son’s sake I hope he is one of those fortunate souls. I hope he takes that awesome talent of his and is able to transform it into a rewarding, enriching career that he loves every minute of. Nothing would make me prouder as a father.

But also, I will feel a little sad for him.

Why?

Because he will never get to experience the joy of pressure-cleaning a roof.

Truth In Advertising

Pop quiz: If someone mentions Seattle, what do you think of? Rainy days? Natural beauty? Coffee? Fish tossing? Grunge music?

It’s all true.

I can vouch, as I just returned from a business trip to The Emerald City (the city’s nickname, as voted on by the residents in 2007). Except something odd happened – it was sunny all three days I was there. The locals assured me that was an anomaly. A quick check of Wikipedia seemed to confirm, as Seattle is said to average only 79 sunny days a year.

Weather aside, it was a fantastic trip. Just to get the business out of the way, I was there to meet with their public transit executives on a technological project they implemented a few years back. However, that’s a great segue into one of the great positives of the city: Awesome mass transit. Unlike its west coast brethren Los Angeles and San Francisco, a car is not a necessity in Seattle. 1,500 local buses, 225 routes, express routes, a light rail line, streetcars, ferries…even a monorail that runs from the Space Needle to the light rail station in the heart of downtown. That was a remnant from the 1962 World’s Fair, but it is far from a tourist thing to do – it is a vital link from the north end of downtown. This network sets the framework for an urban/urbane environment the locals love.

Seattle sits between two large bodies of water – Lake Washington to the east and Puget Sound to the west. Beyond the water are snow-capped mountain ranges. The city itself is rather hilly as the shin splits I am nursing can attest. The downtown area is quite compact, which makes getting around convenient. Getting in and out of downtown? Different story. You got I-5 and I-90, and they’re packed.

So…ride the bus. Everyone else does.

Pike’s Market is the focal point of downtown. Down by the water (meaning downhill from the city – wear good walking shoes), Pike’s seems to be the social gathering spot, a great place to pick up some fresh flowers, crabs or fish. And yes. They do toss the fish there. Gladly. The locals revel in the attention they get and like to put on a show. In fact,  I asked Brandon, one of the tossers, if he would throw one for me while I filmed it. He asked, ‘Are you ready for it?’ Now, I’ve been in a lot of cities. When I hear a phrase like that, I reach for my wallet, as being ‘ready for it’ is code for, ‘Slip me a twenty and I’ll toss fish all day, Tourist.’

But that’s not what Brandon meant. He meant ‘Is your camera ready?’ It was, and he was. There went the fish. And back at him. Fun stuff.

We took the ferry ride from downtown to Bremerton, a bucolic hamlet on the other side of the Sound. And again, this isn’t a tourist thing – the ferry is a mode of transportation, as many downtown workers live on the other side of the Sound. Eight bucks round trip. Twenty minute ride. And awesome views the whole way.

Most everyone knows Starbucks started in Seattle. It also seems to end there as well, as there is a coffee shop on damn near every corner- - many of them Starbucks, but also upstarts like Seattle’s Best, have infiltrated the market. Without a doubt, the drink of choice in Seattle is a double latte.

I mentioned the Space Needle earlier. If you go, you must do the Space Needle. The only thing better than seeing the city from the water or Pike’s Market is from 520 feet in the air. On a clear day you can see Mount St. Helens over 200 miles away…so said Jay, the bartender at the restaurant at the top. But as it is you cannot beat the view. I planned to hang up there for a half hour. I stayed four hours.

Seattle is a heavily taxed city. Gas was $4.39 a gallon when I was there, in comparison to the $3.59 back here in Orlando. Sales taxes are high as well. Funny…I didn’t hear a lot of grumbling about that while I was there. Maybe it is because the locals know what they’re getting for their money.

Or maybe it’s because they know they are living in a beautiful city with wonderful urban amenities. This is reflected in their attitude, as they, or at least the ones I came in contact with, are a happy, contented, caffeinated bunch.

I could so live there.

What Y’all Missed

I know some of you didn’t. I know I didn’t.

What am I talking about? The passing of Levon Helm last week. But that’s not what I mean by what y’all missed. I’m sure many noted his passing.

What you may have missed was one of the most unique voices in rock history as part of a band that was one of the most iconic in rock history. A band that had the audacity to call itself…The Band.

The Band. Simple. Profound.

And very, very talented. Led my Helm on the drums and lead singer, The Band also boasted Robbie Robertson on lead guitar, Rick Danko on bass guitar, Garth Hudson on keyboards and Richard Manuel on just about everything else. This was group that was truly a group – an alchemy. A sum greater that its parts. Individually, they were talented musicians to be sure…but together, they were amazing. They were…The Band. Totally deserving of that simple title.

With the passing of Levon Helm, I was spurred to do a little reminiscing via YouTube of their musical peak, which was the mid-70’s. I watched them perform Up On Cripple Creek and The Weight – two of their most recognizable hits. In both, Helm gave it that soulful, homespun, twangy Arkansas vocal performance that marked his style.

But then I came across a video that I was just mesmerized by. So much so that I played it over and over and over…to the point where the song was just stuck in my head for days –

Virgil Caine is the name and I served on the Danville train…

That song, right there, is why Levon Helm was – and is – a national icon. He took this powerful song about the end of the Civil War and the utter defeat of the Confederate army and wrung every ounce of passion in his body into it. “By May 10th, Richmond had fell....it's a time I remember oh so well....”

And it also shows why The Band was, well, the band.

And it also gave me, as a northerner; pause to reflect on what the south must have gone through when they knew defeat was imminent. The song paints a graphical feel of the time – the army was defeated, they were hungry, tired, and heading back home…but all the bells were ringing and the people were singing.

And what were they singing? “Naaah na na na na na naaaah…Na na na na na na nah”

Almost like a taunt. We won. You lost. Scoreboard. Now go back home while we fill your ears with the sound of your defeat.

And one hundred and ten years after the war ended, Levon Helm and his bandmates totally captured what it must have felt like to have lost that war through the eyes of Tennessee farmer Virgil Caine…and his brother who took a rebel stand until a Yankee laid him in his grave.

Folks, we lost a great voice last week.

Rest in peace, Levon Helm.

An Orlando Primer

So I have now lived in Orlando for over three years, which is an ample amount of time to get a good feel for this place. And to not get lost anymore. Trust me – it is very easy to get lost in this town. I will get into the reasons for that shortly. So I decided to impart the things I have learned about this town on all y’all.

That’s redneck plural.

I love Orlando. I was excited when I first moved here in 2009, and it has just gotten better and better. So many things to see and do. Something always going on. My pet phrase is, if you are bored in Orlando, you just want to be bored…because it is not due to a lack of things available to do. It’s due to your unwillingness to get off your butt and do them.

But it is also a city with a seamy underside. And if you visit, you can certainly stay in your comfy room at the Grand Floridian on Disney property and take the monorail over to Epcot and have a swell time. But if you are feeling adventurous and want to see the city that over two million of us call home, well, read on.

Disney Ain’t Orlando

Nor is Universal Studios. Or Sea World. Or Wet ‘n Wild. Those are our major attractions, and what brings in tourists from all over the world. But that’s not Orlando. The world has gotten a view of the other side of Orlando recently – Casey Anthony, Trayvon Martin. Point being, we are like any other metropolitan area with over 2.3 million people – we have our issues.

So unlike other cities, we are not defined by how we are perceived. This isn’t Cinderella’s Palace or The Incredible Hulk roller coaster. We are a large, sprawling, teeming city filled with excitement…and danger.

Sinkhole City

Orlando likes to boast about all the lakes we have. And we do have a bunch of them. But you want to know what they really are? Sinkholes. Orlando is built on unstable land in the middle of a peninsula. A very high water table, which means there’s a reason we don’t have basements – because they will turn into indoor swimming pools.  And every now and then the land just gives up and falls in. Voila – a sinkhole. And after one of our summer rainy seasons that sinkhole turns into a lake. And two years afterwards, half-million-dollar homes are built with a sinkhole, er, lakefront view.

What the sinkholes also cause is windy, curvy roads. Nothing is in a straight line here. Therefore it is very easy to get lost, and your sense of direction gets compromised – ‘Let’s see…I was heading east, but now the sun’s in my eyes and it’s 7pm….how in the hell did I get headed west?’

Avoid I-4

Traffic is hideous in this town. Anywhere you go – from Winter Garden to Bithlo to Sanford to St. Cloud, there is traffic. Lots of it. And we only have one Interstate – I-4. Now, we do have other highways, but they are toll roads – the Florida Turnpike, 408, 429, 417. So if you want to get anywhere and you don’t want to go fishing through your pocket for change, sooner or later you are going to be on I-4.

I am telling you now. Try not to. At time it’s unavoidable – hey, I-4 is my daily work commute because there’s no other way to get from where I live to where I work. But if you have other options, use them. Please. For the rest of us.

All Cici’s Aren’t Equal

I mentioned earlier that the attractions of Disney, Universal and so on aren’t Orlando. But they are a section of Orlando – the section that we refer to as ‘The Attractions Area’. This is roughly defined as the area southwest of the city, northwest of Kissimmee. This also includes the International Drive (I-Drive) area. I-Drive is a cool place…to visit. But it’s not a place to spend an inordinate amount of time at. Because you will eventually get hungry.

Not that there aren’t places to eat on I-Drive. It is loaded with them, providing any culinary sojourn you care to endeavor upon. The issue is, they’re mostly tourist rip-offs, so expect to pay $15.99 for a cheeseburger. The biggest example of this is Cici’s Pizza – that wonderful chain of all-you-can-stuff-into-your-fat-face pizza buffets. I got two Cici’s within a 10-minute drive of my apartment, one of which is less than a mile from my yoga studio. $4.99 for the buffet.

The one on I-Drive with the exact same selection? $8.99.

You Got A Walmart? We got 10 of them

One of the things that blew me away about O-Town was its proliferation of urban amenities. Whenever I move to a new area I have to identify my amenities – the closest dry cleaner, Chinese take-out restaurant, driving range. Much to my surprise and pleasure, there are about 6 of each. Within 10 minutes of my place.

We also have damn near any restaurant you have where you live, and most likely, multiple locations. Fan of deep-dish Chicago pizza? We got Unos. You a New Yawker that likes his pizza thin and foldable? Good God we got about 150 pizza joints claiming to be ‘authentic New York Style’. Cajun? Try Tibby’s in Winter Park. Vietnamese cuisine? We got a whole section of town – East Colonial – tailored to your palate. Mongolian barbecue, fried catfish huts in the middle of the ‘hood, sports bars, Hooters, Spanish cuisine, Puerto Rican cuisine, Mexican cuisine (each is different), Thai…we got it all.

You want it, we got it. Guaranteed.

Cool Free Stuff To Do

Universal City Walk, Downtown Disney, Leu Gardens, Orlando Historical Center, Wall Street, Lake Eola…to name a few. Believe it or not, you don’t have to spend scads of money to have a good time here, and in many cases, you don’t have to spend anything.

So enjoy your time in Orlando. The City Beautiful.

And stay off I-4.

So Who Moved?

I have been a Democrat ever since I was old enough to vote. Growing up in the strong Union town that was 1970’s Akron, Ohio, there was nothing surprising about that. Akron was a Democrat town.

But it wasn’t just geography that made me a Democrat. My political beliefs have always been aligned with that party. I believe, for example, that how we treat our poor is important, that business isn’t concerned about the public good (they’re concerned about making money), and that war should always be as a last resort. There are many other positions that, if I were to illuminate, would just make me even more Democrat. I have consistently held these beliefs even as I have moved up the economic ladder, and even as I have moved into middle age. So I have been consistent for over 30 years.

What has not been consistent is how I, and on the macro level, the Democratic Party, has been viewed through the years. In the 1970’s we were the majority. In the Reagan Revolution of the 1980s we were often the minority. In the George W. Bush years of the 2000’s we started to become marginalized, especially those of us who were against the Iraq War, as anti-American. After Barack Obama won the presidency in 2008, we were considered left-wing propagandists. When the Republicans won control of the House of Representatives through Tea Party support, we were radicals.

From the voice of the majority to, 30 years later, the far fringe. But the funny thing is, as I pointed out earlier, I didn’t move. So who did?

Kewpie Doll for you if you say the Republican Party.

Republicans have become the well-oiled weathervane of American politics, ever shifting to cater to wherever the prevailing winds are coming from. Now, I get that – to an extent. But what has happened to them is an outright hijack of their party by a true fringe movement. The Tea Party. A movement that came about under dubious pretenses – the election of a black president, fueled by dubious assertions – that said black president is going to ruin the country.

Well, four years later and we’re still standing. Quite better than in 2008 for that matter.

But that’s not the point I am trying to make here. The Tea Party is what they are, and by my count, that’s about twenty percent – at best – of the electorate. And twenty percent of vote in any election makes you, guess what – a loser. Every time.

So I don’t blame the Tea Party for what they are. They have their beliefs and they are entitled to them. Who I blame is the party that has pandered to them, and in the process has moved violently to the right. Want proof? Here you go –

There was once a president that had strong beliefs and a strong vision. He was very popular and served two full successful terms. But even he knew that, in order to get anything done in Washington, compromise had to happen. Legislation that served the interests of both Republicans and Democrats had to occur. This president raised taxes. This president raised defense spending. This president exploded the deficit.

This president was Ronald Reagan.

The same Ronald Reagan that today’s Republicans reverently refer to. The problem is, in today’s political climate, Reagan would not win a single primary, let alone nomination by his party. He would be branded as a Socialist conspirator who not only acknowledges the other side of the aisle, but actually works with them. Today’s Republicans do not take kindly to such traitorous actions. Current-day Republicans do not compromise. They do not budge. They have become the embodiment of far-right dogma. A large chunk of their supporters not only do not accept Obama as president, they believe he is a Muslim. Another large chunk do not even believe he was born in the United States. Folks, agree with me or not, but that is the definition of radical, fringe thinking. If you believe that the president is illegitimate, the radical is you.

As a result, we Democrats (remember us?) have been, in their eyes, moving father away.

But we aren’t the ones who have moved.

Politics, like nature, abhors a vacuum. And in this current political climate, a vacuum has been created by the Republican’s violent move to the right. So someone has to step into and fill that vacuum. It won’t be a Republican. They’ve been hijacked and hamstrung catering to a percent of the electorate that cannot elect anything.

So I will make this prediction now, and check back in November for confirmation. Barack Obama is going to be re-elected. And it won’t be because of Acorn, voter fraud or other concocted conspiracies. He will win the same way he won in 2008. With a solid majority of sane people.

The Republicans created the vacuum, and Obama will fill it.

Ooh My Head

That’s the title of a Ritchie Valens song from the late 1950s, later stolen by Led Zeppelin to create Boogie With Stu. Look it up. Wait, I’ll do it for you –

But I’m not going to discuss music or specifically Zep’s unsavory habit of ripping off other band’s music and calling it their own.

Instead, I am talking about MY head. Last Wednesday I shot my lowest round of golf in five years. A very satisfying 71 at Casselberry Golf Club, with My Man Mike. Satisfying in the sense of shooting a low number, but also unsatisfying in that my damn head got in the way of it being a much lower score. Allow me to recap, and you will see why –

I hit a nice drive on the first hole and proceeded to make a solid par. On two, I half-skulled a gap wedge to 6 feet and made birdie. Number three was a solid two-putt par. We jumped ahead to #6 to bypass a slow foursome and I hit a sand wedge to 3 feet and made the putt for another birdie. On 7 I made a real good sand save for par. On 8, a tough par-3, I hit a 5 iron to 15 feet, two putt par. On 9 I hit a 6 iron to 5 feet and made the putt for birdie.

Enter the first chink in the mental armor – I said to Mike “Holy shit I’m three under.” Mike’s response is what he always says to me – “Don’t think about it. Keep swinging.”

On 10 I made a lucky par. Eleven is arguably the toughest hole on the course, and I made a bogey. I parred 12 and 13. Standing on the 14^th tee I’m 2 under and I know it.

And that’s exactly the wrong place for your head to be – knowing what you’re shooting. The impulse is to try to protect/defend instead of, as Mike said, to keep swinging.

I pulled my drive on 14, but was okay. I tried to hit a hard 9 iron into the wind to a front pin with a bunker in front. Bad strategy. There was 40 feet of green behind that pin, but I hit the club that brought the bunker into play. Splat – into the bunker. Left with a very simple, clean uphill lie in the bunker and about a 50-foot shot, my last thought was “Don’t blade it over the green.”

Well I didn’t. I hit it 3 feet and left it in the bunker.

Now I’m pissed. Stepping up to the next shot I did exactly what I told myself not to do on the previous shot. I bladed it over the green, damn near decapitating Mike in the process. I pitched on and made a 10-footer for double bogey.

Even par.

On to 15. The toughest hole on the course – a 220-yard par 3. On the drive from 14 to 15 I am kicking myself – ‘Nice job Nimrod. You just doubled an easy hole and now you gotta play the toughest hole on the course’. I tried to jump on my 3-hybrid and hit a skank pull-hook that rattled in the huge magnolia tree and came to rest inside a drain culvert. After taking a drop, I hit on the green and two putts later, I registered back-to-back double bogeys.

Two over. When fifteen minutes earlier I was two under.

Ooh my head.

Sometimes I really hate this fucking game.

But it’s not the game! It’s how I play the game that’s the issue. I made three good pars on 16, 17 and 18, and I said to Mike, we gotta go back and play 4 & 5 because I want to post this score, and we had skipped them earlier.

So back to #4 we go, a solid 380-yard par 4 with water in front. The play is to hit the drive as far as you can to set up a short iron over that water. Knowing that, I heel a piece of crap drive about 210 yards off the tee. Now instead of a 9 iron approach I have 170 yards to a back pin into the wind with a pond in front, and I am trying like hell to get two over into the clubhouse.

It was at this point sanity re-entered the cesspool of my brain. I took out a 7-wood, my 180-yard club, and made my best swing of the day, placing the ball about 25 feet from the hole. Two putts later and I can finally breathe a sigh of relief because the fifth hole is just a 120-yard par 3 with no real hazards.

On the fifth tee I said to Mike “I need an ace to break 70.” He just laughed. Because he knows me. I hit it 12 feet from the hole and before I hit the putt I said “If I make this it’s 4 under on the front nine.” I didn’t, but a tap-in par gave me the 71.

Golf is essentially played between the ears. Yes, there is a lot of mechanics involved in executing a proper swing, but ultimately it is about using your brain to a point, then shutting it off – you have to use it to calculate yardage, wind direction, the lie, where you want to hit it and so on. Then you have to shut it off when it’s time to hit the ball. Trust what you got…and just swing.

And for Christ’s sake, do not think about what your score is.

My head hurts.

The View

No, not that estrogen-laden talk show.

I was thinking about my job and what I do for a living. It is an unglamorous position in an unglamorous profession. Specifically I am a transit planner. I determine where buses go. And here in Orlando, that consists of 230 buses on 65 routes serving 95 thousand people a day. It is intricate work, much like a large crossword puzzle where the ‘Across’ and ‘Down’ words intersect at key points, except instead of words it’s buses.

There is a lot of ‘behind the scenes’ work in making a transit system run efficiently. On the surface it seems pretty straightforward – you see a bus going down a street picking up people. You might think, looks easy. Well, when planned properly, it is. But couple the detail of writing bus schedules, making sure the Across and Downs intersect at the right places, then couple that with the road network in Orlando and the insane traffic we have here, and it is a constant struggle to get it right.

In fact, you never really do get it right. There’s just degrees of wrong.

So my job is to minimize the wrong – to get printed bus schedules to reflect real-time, daily-changing variables. For example, a bus operator once asked me, “Do your schedules take into account getting caught by a train?”

No. They don’t. If you get caught by a train then you will run late.

“What about when the Orlando Magic are playing at the Amway? Do you adjust the schedules?”

No. We don’t. If Dwight Howard is pouring in 33 points then you will run late.

So to summarize, this is not a job that most kids grow up aspiring to have. And to be fair, I like what I do, and to quote my mother, I am pretty damn good at it. The pay isn’t bad and the people I work with are, for the most part, a pretty good bunch.

But if you’re sensing a lack of passion for my profession, you would not be incorrect.

So why do I do it?

Well, for one, because this is what I chose to do, and I am now 53. A second career really isn’t in the offing, especially since retirement is (hopefully) just 12 years down the road. But there is one thing I absolutely love about my job, and for some it may seem trivial, but it is really what motivates me.

It’s my office.

I have an awesome office. It is on the top floor of the LYNX Building in downtown Orlando with ceiling-to-floor windows looking westward over Interstate 4. I can look to the southwest and see Disney in the distance. To the north I can see all the way to Seminole County. Looking south I see the skyline of downtown. I can hear the I-4 traffic humming below. It is a fairly roomy office with room for a little circular meeting table and shelves with mementos of my real passions – my son, golf, and the Cleveland Browns.

As I mentioned, some may consider this trivial. I so disagree. It really means everything. I have worked in cubicles. I have worked in a large room with twenty other people. I have had offices with four walls and no windows. I’ve had jobs with no office. My current office beats them all…by a mile. It is the best office I have ever had.

Look, work is where you spend 40 hours a week (at least) at. That’s twenty-five percent of a week. You actually spend more of your waking hours at work than elsewhere, including home. And the environment you are placed in matters. A lot. Cubicles are soul-sucking constructs of supposed efficiency. But an office with windows – 60 feet in the air? That’s damn-near nirvana, Bubba. Especially for what I do.

So, to take it back to the top – why do I do this?

Because I love my office.

The Only Way?

The NFL is a copycat league. This we know. When one team has success utilizing a certain play or system, other teams mock it. The Wildcat, for example.

This seems to have extended to how you build a successful team. Recent Super Bowl winners have featured homegrown Quarterbacks taken high in the first round of the draft – Eli Manning, Drew Brees, Peyton Manning, Aaron Rodgers and so on. So other teams, seeing this success, are copying it. This would explain the Redskins mortgaging their future for the shot at drafting Robert Griffin.

And it also explains why some Browns fans are screaming for the front office to take Ryan Tannehill, who does not even represent the QB consolation prize in this year’s draft – that was Griffin. Tannehill, by most accounts, is the distant-third-best QB in the draft. A project that will need time to develop. A guy who we will not even know for about three years whether he was worth the investment.

But hey, recent Super Bowl winners have first-round QBs. So we gotta have one too, right?

No. Recent success by other teams doing something a certain way does not mean it’s the only way to be successful. See, I could point out a 6th round pick by the name of Tom Brady, or going back ten years, Trent Dilfer. The supporters of ‘Draft a QB High’ blueprint don’t like it when Dilfer is invoked. But it is a valid point – there’s more than one way to win in this league. Baltimore’s plan was a dominating defense and a ball-control offense…and a QB that doesn’t have to go win games (and on the flip side doesn’t lose them).

I know our front office has a plan. And I am sure somewhere in that plan is upgrading the QB position should Colt McCoy not be the answer. McCoy was a third-round pick, so if you subscribe to the ‘Draft a QB High’ theory to success, that’s about two and a half rounds too late, thus his fate is sealed. I am hoping by the point some are starting to see the over-simplistic folly of equating success with where your QB was drafted.

What I would say about the QB position is, it the most visible position on the team. He handles the ball on every play. And we know the QB gets too much of the credit when the team wins and too much of the blame when they lose. Which, by the way, explains much of the criticism of McCoy. With a losing record as a starter, he hasn’t (yet) captured the lightning in a bottle and elevated the play of those around him; therefore he doesn’t represent the express elevator ride to the top that the ‘Draft a QB High’ theorists want to see.

Well, I would offer that Tannehill won’t give us that ride either.

So here it is, here’s my take. Ready?

There are many ways to build a winning NFL franchise. Recent success of other teams notwithstanding. What we have experienced recently are teams that, somewhere along the way, were in a position to upgrade their QB position. They were in a draft position where they could get their QB of the future, let him ferment on the bench for a while, then step in and carry an already good team to higher level of success.

Read that last sentence again. Teams that were already good is the key.

The Browns are not good. Yet.

So how do we get good? Well, this year’s draft is going to be critical. With (presently) three picks in the top 37, we have the opportunity to get three impact players. If Heckert parlays that #4 overall pick into multiple first & second round picks, we will have even more. But unfortunately (or in my opinion, fortunately), QB will not be one of those players chosen.

Unless, of course, Heckert ignores the plan and instead tries to shortcut the way to the top like the Redskins are trying, by ignoring obvious areas of the team in need of upgrading in favor of a project QB.

I have a theory. And I will admit I hope it proves true since the Browns have been living it for about a decade now. It goes like this: The longer it takes for a team to get good, the longer they will be good once they get there. In other words, teams that have a plan and patiently stick to it will be rewarded once the plan produces. Conversely, those that try to shortcut their way to the top will either never get there or, if they do get there, won’t be there long.

So for the 2012 draft, ignore QB. It didn’t work out for us this year and we are in no position to be drafting projects in the top ten. Let the Dolphins take Tannehill. I will gladly welcome Trent Richardson, Justin Blackmon or Morris Claiborne to the team and enjoy watching them improve the team immediately.

William and Trayvon

I don’t know what it is about Orlando, but recently we seem to be in the national spotlight for less than desirable things. What was once all about teacup rides and Incredible Hulk roller coasters has become more sobering storylines about mothers killing their children and getting away with it. We went through a tumultuous summer last year being transfixed on the Casey Anthony trial which culminated in a not guilty verdict over the Fourth of July, and subsequent cries of unfairness of a system with apparently heinous loopholes that would permit an alleged child killer free.

Now we have the shooting of an unarmed teenager by a wannabe cop in Sanford.

Here we go again.

George Zimmerman killed Trayvon Martin. He confessed to the shooting. He is, or will be, claiming self defense. He felt this young black man-child posed a threat to him even though it was Zimmerman who was the pursuer. It was Zimmerman with the gun. Martin was armed with Skittles. Zimmerman claims Martin jumped him and broke his nose, and thus was justifiably in fear for his life. So he killed him. This we know. We also have a video tape of Zimmerman arriving at the Sanford Police Department with no blood on his face or clothes, and his nose looking pretty much intact.

Now, we really do not know what happened beyond that. There were only two people who saw it, and one of them is dead. However, what we now have coming out from all angles is speculation. That’s fine, that happens. In the absence of verifiable proof, people speculate. Something has to feed the 24/7 news cycle.

But something else is starting to surface, and it is something very alarming and very wrong. Trayvon Martin’s character is being debated. Reports of being suspended from school repeatedly have surfaced. Reports that he was essentially a thug-in-training. A whole line of totally irrelevant to the fact that Zimmerman shot him information. Information that is designed to paint Zimmerman, not as a make-believe cop with an itchy trigger finger but instead as someone doing society a favor. This picture is starting to become clearer, and it will likely be used for whatever defense Zimmerman must use to defend his actions.

I have another name for you. William Schroeder.

You probably do not know who William Schroeder is. Perhaps it will help if I mention the other names that he is connected with: Allyson Krause, Jeffrey Miller and Sandra Scheuer. Still drawing a blank? Then I will give you one more: The Ohio National Guard. Here’s one more: Kent State University. May 4, 1970.

Schroeder was one of the students killed by the Ohio National Guard during the Vietnam War protests at Kent State. Schroeder was guilty of nothing more than going to class at the most inopportune time, at about 12:15 p.m. on Monday, May 4, 1970. That is him, with the box around him, books in hand, part of the group that the Guard fired into. That picture was taken about ten minutes before he was killed.

In the wake of the Kent State shootings, we were informed that this was a rioting mob. That there were snipers on rooftops – and perhaps in the crowd – that endangered the Guard’s lives. That, therefore, the shootings were justified. History ended up showing, however, that there were a total of 67 shots fired that day and all 67 were by the Guardsmen. The final tally was four dead, nine wounded, and none of them Guardsmen. In the aftermath, a lot of spin was attempted, from the President of the United States all the way down to the Mayor of Kent, to portray the shootings as justified. That order had to be restored. That, hey, a few dead radicals…so what.

Look at that picture of William Schroeder again. Do radicals wear windbreakers and carry books?

Keep this story in mind as the George Zimmerman case unfolds. Because we are not a country that remembers our past very well. Trayvon is going to be vilified. As his grieving mother said “They killed my son. Now they’re trying to kill his reputation.” We will be led to believe that Zimmerman was simply doing his job, and Trayvon got what was coming to him.

When I go to the the May 4 Memorial in my visits back to the campus where I spent eight years of my life pursuing and obtaining two college degrees, I am always left with the same conclusion:

These kids did not deserve to die.

And neither did Trayvon Martin.

After all the talking heads have talked, that’s the bottom line. This is not about wearing hoodies or walking though a neighborhood after dark or being suspended from school. It is about abuse of force.

Both William and Trayvon were the victims of it.

An Intimate Group

I just returned from a trip. It was a trip that can be categorized in a number of fashions – it was a pleasure trip consisting of a lot of golf with some old friends of mine. That is probably the most general way to describe it but certainly not the only way. These are guys I have known, some for over 15 years. Others I had never met before. Some I am very close with. Others, honestly, I probably would not spend a lot of time with.

We are a group that, if not for a shared disease, would not normally mix.

The disease is one that, if not arrested on a daily basis, will kill us. And the way we arrest it is to take action. And one of those actions is what we did for the past five days in Charleston, South Carolina –insisting that we absolutely enjoy life. That may sound odd since I am being purposely vague about our shared malady, so just trust me on this. This is something we had to do.

And we, or speaking for myself, had an awesome time. I played six round of golf in five days. I have the blisters, sunburn and the inability to raise my left arm as proof. I also have the glow of a shared experience. We don’t drink alcohol, which seems to raise eyebrows in others. But one of the ways we don’t drink is to mix with each other. We stay close.

Unfortunately for me, I moved away from Akron 11 years ago (where these guys are from), so the opportunities to stay close to them are limited to these trips. So for me, this was an essential journey.

So we laughed, we ribbed each other, we bet a little, we golfed, we had dinners together, and we shared. Twice we held meetings back at the hotel. In these meetings we each talked about, well, whatever was on our minds. During one of these meetings, John H. Jr. had an illuminating comment. We usually preface our comments with our name & acknowledgement of our malady. Instead John said ‘Do we really need to state our names? We are a pretty intimate group’.

An intimate group.

Indeed we are.

These trips are bittersweet for me. I dearly enjoyed our time together, but I also know that time together is limited, that in a few days I would head south to Orlando while they all headed north to Akron. Sometimes that reality got to me. It did during one of these meetings, as I spontaneously started welling up and crying. It also happened as I said my goodbyes to them when I left to go back to Orlando. I shook each one’s hand, gave each a hug. And then the last one was John. Not the John that said the ‘intimate group’ comment, but John H – my Scarecrow. My closest, dearest friend in recovery. I hugged him…and I couldn’t let go. I told him I loved him. He said he loved me. And I kept hugging him.

Obviously, I had to let go, because John had more golf to play and it is kind of difficult to play golf with someone attached to your chest. I got into my car and started the 400-mile drive back home. Before I even got on the highway I was crying.

I don’t know how much they miss me, and that really doesn’t matter. That’s for them to answer. But I can tell you I miss these guys. A lot. I have similar friends here in Orlando, but it is just not the same. These were the guys that saved my ass time and time again. We are an intimate group, because, despite our apparent differences, we are cut of the same cloth. Nobody knows us like we know each other. It’s not on a physical plane. Not even an emotional one. It is much deeper than that. I cannot explain it, and do not really want to try to. It doesn’t need analysis. It just is.

And I can tell you this –

My calendar is already circled for a trip to Charleston in March 2013.