Twilight

Yesterday I wrote a story about one of the benefits of getting older, that being the joy of reconnecting with old friends from youth. Today I am in a more somber mood with a sober realization.

My mother is dying.

Mom has dementia and it is eventually going to take her life. A few years back it started to show, as she became increasingly forgetful. In fact I wrote a story back in 2008 about her and referenced this behavior -

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

Sadly, in the time between then and now, it has gotten much worse. Her world is progressively shrinking as a result of her diminishing mental capacity. My mother is the most intelligent person I know. Much of what I am is a direct result of what she has instilled in me. Traits such as integrity, honesty, intelligence, courtesy…all came from her. I used to revel in our conversations about world affairs, politics, the Cleveland Browns. She was always insightful and always made me think. She also taught me how to disagree without being disagreeable. Unfortunately, I fall short of the ideals she set, but that does not in any way diminish her impact on me. She still remains the prototype of selflessness. She is, literally a saint. And when she leaves us the world will be a crueler place.

I just got back from a trip to Ohio where I was able to spend a lot of time with her. It was heartbreaking. Those conversations about world affairs? Gone. Receiving thoughtful advice on how to deal with this sometimes dragging dirge we call life? Gone. These days our conversations tend to go like this:

Mom: What day is it today?

Me: It’s Wednesday, mom.

Mom. Oh that’s right. When does your flight leave?

Me: Tomorrow, mom.

Mom: Oh that’s right. What day is it today?

Mom is now 84 years old, and due to being a lifetime smoker (and she still smokes) her body has been ravaged. She is extremely frail, about 90 pounds. But to me, the physical deterioration is nothing in comparison to the degeneration of her mind. Mom was an accountant, and as you could imagine, had that mathematical acuity accountants are known for. These days she cannot even process paying her bills. Imagine that for a moment - an accountant unable to no longer manage her finances. That’s how far she has regressed. Her phone service has been shut off twice because she simply forgot to pay the bill.

I hate this disease. Hate it. It has taken my mother…but she’s still here, and that is the tragedy of it. That frail old lady who sits in her easy chair crocheting and listening to The Golden Girls with the volume up way too loud is still my mom, but her essence is gone. What is left is a shell of a person, robbed of what made her her.

One of these days I will appear at her door and she is going to ask who I am. She will forget me.

So I hate to say this, because it sounds cruel, but when she dies it will almost be a relief.

Because, honestly, she left us a long time ago.

Getting Buzz’d

One of the benefits of getting older (yes, there indeed are benefits), is reuniting with old friends you haven’t seen in years. So to you twenty-somethings preparing to see old classmates at your 10^th anniversary class reunion, those don’t count. I’m talking about friends from decades ago, which can only occur when you get to be around my age.

I played golf last night with my old friend Buzz. Real name Carmen, which, if I were tagged with that name, I would go by Buzz too. (And again, for you twenty-somethings, his last name isn’t Lightyear…jeez)

Buzzie was two years behind me in high school, and he has two amazing traits - an extremely easygoing personality and a lethal golf swing. The combination of those two traits led to a career in professional golf, both as a club pro and on the mini-tour level. And that lethal golf swing that, 35 years ago, left us all slack-jawed when he would rip a 270-yard rifle-shot controlled draw, is still there. Okay maybe it’s now 260 yards, as Buzz is now 50, but he can still pump it past 98 percent of the golfers out there. He plays forged Titleist irons. Translation: He can play. He’s one of those guys that has a dime-sized hole worn out on his 2-iron right on the sweet spot. And I can tell you that is the true mark of a player. Not a tour bag, not a form-fitting Nike shirt, not a set of hand-made whatevers. It’s a dime-sized worn sweet spot on a 2-iron.

Player.

Buzzie’s Achilles heel is, and always has been, his putting. I & My Man Mike used to joke that we would shoot a ‘Buzz 72’ - translation - 16 greens in regulation, 35 putts. I used to say that if you combined Buzzie’s ball striking with my putting, you’d have a helluva player. But that’s giving me way too much credit - Buzz is a helluva player all by his own.

Another nice trait he has is, from a totally self-centered point of view, is he thinks I am the greatest putter in the world. I’m not. As an aside, he also thinks I can sing. I can’t. But he swears that I am the best putter he knows, and you know what - I will let him keep thinking that. So we played golf last night and knowing that he thinks I can putt, I felt obliged to not let him down. Fortunately I didn’t, as I ran in a 25-foot for birdie on the third hole and a 20-footer from the fringe on 13 for another bird. That just let out the ‘Damn Jer….you can still putt’ comments. Which, of course, I ate up.

It bears noting in the 14^th tee Buzz proposed we spice up the action by playing the last 5 holes for a buck each. Now up to that point Buzz was kind of scraping it around, playing the kind of golf that virtually any player on the planet would accept, but definitely not up to his standards. But once we put a little cash on the line? The laser controlled draw reappeared, flagsticks got fired at, putts dropped.

And five bucks passed from my hand to his.

We also exchanged lessons, prior to playing for money of course, where I pointed out a couple of things in his putting stroke and he helped me immensely with my swing. This happened on the 11^th hole, where I was doing my usual spraying it all over the place form of Army Golf (left, right, left, right…). I commented to myself ‘Man I got to get back on my heels at address...’ and then I proceeded to hit a skank pull-hook pitching wedge 20 yards left of the green. Buzz came over and gave me a one-word lesson. He said ‘Balance’. Of course, I asked to elaborate, and he replied that the weight should be on neither the heels nor the toes - it should be in the middle of the foot. He pointed to my golf shoes and said ‘See the bottom shoe lace? Right there.’ I then dropped a ball, took his advice and put the weight right where he told me to, and proceeded to stick a pitching wedge five feet from the pin. I looked at Buzz and he just smiled. And for the rest of the round I actually hit it respectably good.

This is the mark of a good teacher. Simplicity. And you can’t get any simpler than a one-word lesson.

Dinner followed and we caught up on things. And the good news is Buzz will be in town for a few weeks so we will have the opportunity for more rounds, more one-word lessons and more laughs.

But I ain’t playing him a buck a hole anymore.

Weekend With Bernie

As we grow older we tend to become less awestruck with the heroes of our youth. This may be due to a number of reasons – missteps in their lives that get publicized or maybe we just lose the youthful exuberance of meeting a famous person. Who knows. But it happens.

This last Saturday night I had the pleasure, and I do mean that, of meeting my favorite Cleveland Browns player of all time – Bernie Kosar. To set the table, Bernie is certainly a fan favorite, as his playing days showed a combination of guts and smarts. He wasn’t the fastest guy or had the strongest arm. A contemporary of his named Elway had those traits. Bernie was not graceful on the football field. In fact, he looked amazingly awkward – he was all legs and gangly arms as he dropped back to pass, and his throwing motion was this sidearm, look one way throw another…thing. I can’t even describe it. When he ran he resembled a Giraffe on Ecstasy. But he got the job done. Very well. Pro-Bowl level well. And nobody outsmarted Bernie.

When his playing days ended his personal life fell apart. Bankruptcies, a broken down body, divorce. Which just endeared himself more to his fans. Just as we could identify with his grit as a player, we identified with his struggles in real life, because many of us have gone through the same things. But Bernie went through these events with grace and courage…just like he did when facing a safety blitz. He would get up, dust himself off, and think about the next thing to do.

He does color commentary for the Browns preseason games, which has been a real treat. To hear him talk, he has a sort of a speech impediment – he tends to slur his words, which would almost make you think he’s drunk or under the influence of something. Hey, given the amount of injuries he had and the concussions, a steady diet of painkillers would certainly be understandable.

But when you listen to what he is saying, it is amazingly detailed and usually pinpoint accurate, so you realize that the brain is sharp. For example, when the offense breaks the huddle, Bernie is already analyzing the defense with comments like “They’re in Cover-two with the Strong Safety cheating the line. Look for the slot receiver to be covered by the linebacker, so he should be open on the slant...”

And he was almost always right. I can honestly say I am educated every time I hear him call a play.

So anyway. Back to Saturday night. It was the 25th anniversary of the Palm Beach Browns Backers club, and they got Bernie to do a meet ‘n greet. I arrive, and there he was – taller than I thought he would be until I remembered that he is 6-foot 5. But that’s the thing with Bernie – I guess it’s that everyman quality about him. He was so approachable, very friendly, patient…genuine. Within five seconds of being with him (or whenever the awe wore off), you were just chatting with an old buddy. He made you feel very comfortable. While we talked, he reached over to his right hand and took off his Super Bowl ring he won with Dallas in 1993, hands it to me and says ‘Check this out.”

And then he walked away.

You read that right – he handed his Super Bowl ring to a total stranger then went over to talk to someone else. He was about 30 feet away and I yelled over to him, ‘Hey Bernie, I got your ring…’ His reply?

“I trust you.”

Those that know Bernie’s story since he retired know that many of his personal problems stemmed from this very trait. He trusts people. Sometimes too much so. He has lent money that was never returned, he lent his name (and money) to businesses that went belly-up, and he married a woman that ended up taking him to the cleaners in the divorce. A few years back he was broke and lost as a result of this trusting nature. So you would think, as a result of all that, that he wouldn’t hand a Super Bowl ring to a total stranger, wouldn’t you?

But that’s not Bernie.

The other totally lovable trait about this guy is the respect he gives to any and everyone. When he shakes your hand he looks you straight in the eye, and not with a ‘Ain’t I a big shot and you should be honored’ glare, but with a warm smile and a genuine ‘Nice to meet you’ attitude. When you ask him a question, he looks at you, ponders the answer, and then gives you an honest reply that gives total respect to the effort of the person that framed the question. In other words, he doesn’t blow you off. He is also amazingly earthy. Meaning, he swears. Which seems like a bit of a shock when you first hear it, but almost immediately you realize yep, he’s one of us. He was sharing the story of his first practice with the University of Miami football team. In his words, “I was standing there with Jim Kelly on one side of me and Vinny Testaverde of the other, and I realized that I was fucked.”

It bears noting that Bernie, like many famous athletes, arrived with an entourage. However, unlike those other famous athletes, Bernie’s entourage consisted of his three kids. And that was it. Now, to be fair, there was a representative of the Cleveland Browns with him too, but given she was the 25-year old Coordinator of Browns Backers Worldwide, she could hardly be categorized as part of his posse. His peeps are his kids.

Like I said, he’s everyman. And I am even more in awe of him than I was when he was sidearming passes and leading the Browns to playoff victories in the 1980’s. I may have gotten older, but my respect and admiration of him has not waned one iota.

He’s still my hero.

Man Plans…

So last night I was playing golf with My Man Mike, our regular Wednesday night male-bonding experience. We played Dubsdread, a real nice public track in urban Orlando. Started on the back nine. Teed off a little after 5:00pm, which gives us just enough time to get 18 before dark. The rain fortunately held off.

We started on the back nine. Number 10 is a short par 4, about 320 yards, with a lake on the left about 180 yards out that goes all the way up to the green. You can bail right, but there’s bunkers and mounds to keep you honest. Essentially, you have to hit something laser-straight about 200 yards, then face a wedge shot to the green with that water on the left begging you to hit it there. Great little hole.

I hit my 3-hybrid nicely, given it was my first swing of the day, about 190 yards down the middle. I then hit a cautious 9-iron to the right fringe, respecting the lake on the left. I lagged up my 30-foot birdie putt to three feet…and then missed the putt. A 180-horseshoe. So I played the hole exactly as it should have been played...and walked off with a bogey 5.

The twelfth hole is a 160-yard par 3 over water. Huge green, but it is all carry to get to it. Mike hits first & throws a real nice 7-iron in there about 20 feet away. I’m up, and I hit my 6-iron just a touch fat. Here’s a tip - never hit a shot 'a touch fat' with water in front. The ball is in the air & I’m thinking ‘Oh crap. Where’s the Drop Area..’ when the ball comes down, hits the top of the wall that separates the green from the water, careens high in the air, and lands inside Mike’s ball, about 15 feet away. Mike misses his putt, I run mine in for a nice (read lucky) birdie.

Better to be lucky than good.

The next hole is a dogleg right par 4. No water, but trees frame both sides of the fairway from tee to green. Pretty hole. Having the honors with my awesome (read Luckbox Jerry) birdie, I proceed to hit a pull hook that settles in the trees on the right. I was fortunate to even find my ball, as it was sitting down, waaay down in the rough. With about 125 yards to the green I take out a 9 iron and give it a violent hack hoping to just advance it somewhere in the vicinity of the green. It actually came out decently and settled in the rough to the right of the green, pin high, about 60 feet from the hole.

I take my sand wedge out, make a couple of flop-shot practice swings, and hit the ball. It comes out nicely, plops on the green about 15 feet short of the hole, rolls out and starts breaking left towards the hole, hits the pin and drops in. I just made my second birdie in a row, and none of the shots I hit were any good. In contrast, I played the tenth hole perfectly, and made a bogey.

This is why golfers are fucked up.

Seriously. To play this game you have to have a few screws loose. But more accurately, as I have waxed upon previously and repeatedly, golf is like life. You just don’t know what awaits next. Go ahead and plan all you want, but God is sitting up there laughing His deified butt off at you when you do, as if He is saying ‘Yeah okay Jer. Have at it. I need the entertainment.’

And further, ain't it great that we don't get what we deserve? Had things gone according to how I played & deserved, I would have parred the first hole, rinsed a ball on #12 for a double bogey, and at least a bogey on #13. I would have been 3 over par instead of one under had I got what I truly deserved. And that's the beauty of life - we don't get what we deserve, we get what we get.

So, dear readers, make your plans. Execute them to the best of your abilities. But my advice is to remove any and all expectations on results. That will turn God’s belly laugh into a wise, knowing smile.

100 Percent Polar Bear

So a baby polar bear goes up to his mom and asks, “Mom, am I one hundred percent polar bear?” The mom replies why of course you are. I’m 100% polar bear and your dad is. That makes you 100% polar bear. The baby polar bear then goes to his dad - “Dad, am I one hundred percent polar bear?” The dad says sure - I’m 100% polar bear and so is your mom, and both our parents were polar bears. That makes you 100% polar bear. Why do you ask?

The baby polar bear looks at the dad and says, “Because I’m freezing my ass off.”

I share this somewhat cute and amusing joke to illustrate this basic fact. I was born and raised in northeast Ohio as were my parents and their parents. But I live in Florida. Have for virtually my entire adult life. And when asked why I moved from Ohio to Florida I share the baby polar bear story.

I am a Buckeye through and through. Not the Ohio State kind of Buckeye; I went to Kent State thank you very much, but the Ohioan kind of Buckeye. I know what’s knee-high by the fourth of July. I can pronounce Mantua and Cuyahoga (Man-away and Ky-YOG-ah for those keeping score). The top of a house is called a roof, rhyming with woof. I have experienced Lake Effect Snow. I love and am very proud of my roots, and try to get back there every chance I get to see family and friends. So why did I leave?

Because I was freezing my ass off.

My issue with Ohio weather isn’t that it gets cold. It’s not that it snows. It’s that it does both for an inordinate length of time. The winters are too damn long, and linger on stubbornly. Usually by mid-October is the first snowfall. By early November all the leaves are off the trees, and just to be sure none are remaining a nice sleet storm rolls through to polish off the rest of them. By Thanksgiving the thermometer has retreated south of 32 degrees. By early December a blanket of snow ushers in the hibernation period which lasts until late March. When April comes it can be either 65 or 25 degrees. You’re not out of the woods when the calendar turns to May either. The rule of thumb for gardeners is to not plant anything before May 15, lest frost kills your fledgling seedlings. Finally by June any remnants of winter are erased. You know this because the temperature goes from too cold to unbearably hot. They get that for three months and the cycle repeats.

There is really only one good month in Ohio weather-wise - September. The days are sunny with temperatures in the 70’s. But you know it won’t last, as the sun gets lower and lower on the horizon each day until…

Baby polar bear leaves.

Having lived in Florida for over 25 years now, I feel blessed that I actually have two homes. I am equally comfortable in either place - whether it’s the fickleness of Ohio weather or the surliness of Florida people. But the people don’t really bother me, thus I can deal with them. The weather, however, is another story entirely. I cannot control it. I can just choose to not be in it.

One day I will be a snowbird. I will retire back to my home in Port St. Lucie and, when that third week of May arrives and with it the Florida humid rainy season, I will load up the car and head to Ohio, since by then I am pretty sure the snow has finished for the year. And I will stay until late September which, again, by then I am pretty sure that the snow hasn’t started yet for the year. I will play golf, eat Szalay’s sweet corn, and listen to the fellow Ohioans bitch about hot it is. And I will laugh when they do.

Because baby polar bear is warm and happy.

She Said No No No…

So the sad but not very surprising news came out over the weekend. Amy Winehouse died.

My reaction was the same as most everyone’s - that she was a train wreck. Well true. She was. And her death is but the latest in a series of celebrity snuff-outs due to alcohol and drug abuse. Sadly, hers will not be the last.

Addiction is a confounding, heartbreaking illness that is extremely misunderstood by those that do not have it. From the outside looking in, someone like Winehouse looks pathetic and weak. The conclusion drawn by most people is why couldn’t she just stop? Couldn’t she see what she is doing to herself?

The answer to the second question is yes, she knew. But the answer to the first question is, she couldn't stop because she didn’t want to - she never got to the point of wanting to. And therein lies the heartbreak of addiction.  As she sang so famously, they tried to make her go to rehab and she said no no no.

I have first-hand experience in addiction, so let no one think that I am just some talking head expounding on something I know nothing about. Amy’s death has really hit home with me, because I was once right where she is, or more accurately was, prior to July 23, 2011. I was once in grave danger of dying. And the unfathomable attitude I had at that time was, I’m okay, I can handle this. I was unable to see how bad it had gotten. It took others - loved ones - to literally jerk me out of my shell of denial and re-plant me elsewhere. I protested. I didn’t want to go. But I went.

And sixteen years later, I am still here.

Please do not misunderstand. I am not trying to portray myself as better than Amy. I was simply more fortunate. Everyone’s circumstances is different, and in my case I did not have handlers and hangers-on trying to tell me things were cool, to just keep singing so we can all be rich. Nobody made me go do an epic fail concert in Belgrade where I slurred and stumbled my way around a stage for the entire world to see.

In the end it was just me and my drugs. And in that lopsided battle, the drugs were going to win. And that’s what I had in common with Amy.

So why the drastically different outcomes? Why am I here and a great talent like Amy Winehouse is gone? Well here’s the answer, and it is one simple word. Willingness.

Somewhere along the way, after I stopped protesting and the fog started to lift, I realized that I wanted to be sober - that sobriety was a more favorable choice. Amy never got there. The familiar pain of active addiction won out over the unfamiliar pain of recovery. Her life was a process of moving from one fear to the next. Hers was a tormented soul that never had the chance to heal. She never got to willingness.

And the tragedy of that unwillingness is obvious, now.

We never got a comeback tour, we will never know how that soulful voice would have matured. Instead, the disease chalked up another victim.

Pete Townshend of The Who once stated in a documentary that rock and roll is like watching a house on fire - it is violent, oddly beautiful and captivating…until you realize that people are dying, that lives are being expended by the spectacle.

Amy Winehouse was just the latest sacrifice to that altar.

Her soul can now rest.

A Tiger In A Tailspin

Remember a few scant years ago when Tiger Woods not only was the best golfer on the planet, but also the poster person for integrity?

Amazing what hitting a fire hydrant can do, eh?

Since that eventful night in November 2009, Tiger has completely unraveled. His personal life got mulched with the stories of raging infidelity surfacing. Next came the expected divorce. (As an aside, I don’t fault the guy for wanting to tap hot women and the occasional Perkins manager, but not while married) Next came the physical breakdown of his left knee which spread to his Achilles.

Deep breath here Tiger. Your hot Swedish wife divorced your cheatin’ ass and your personal temple, your body, was also telling you something - chill out.

But Tiger’s not wired that way. Play through the pain. After all, he won the 2008 US Open on one good leg. The personal life? None of your goddamn business. Soldier on. Next came a truly WTF moment as he switched swing coaches, from renowned Hank Haney to, uhhh…

Sean Foley?

Sean Freekin Foley. A guy whose name sent people scrambling to Google search to find out who the hell he was. Somewhere Butch Harmon had a good guffaw on that. The reason this choice was so confounding was that Foley changed Tiger’s swing to the ‘stack and tilt’ method which relies on having body weight pre-set on the left side at address and keeping it there throughout the swing. It is a simpler method of swinging that, in theory, creates more consistent shots. The main problem with stack and tilt is that it puts a lot of pressure on the left knee. And that’s if you got a good left knee. Tiger’s left knee has been operated on four times. And now he has a swing coach teaching him a method that stresses the weakest part of his body.

You don’t have to be a rocket scientist to see the Folly of Foley.

But the worst was yet to come. This week it was announced that Tiger fired his longtime caddy, Steve Williams. The man on his bag for 13 of his 14 major wins. The guy whose shoulder he sobbed like a baby on after winning the 2006 British Open, the first major win after Tiger’s father died. The guy that was Tiger’s on-course enforcer, a guy not afraid to confiscate cameras or go after hecklers.

So let’s add all this up. He lost his wife (personal life stabilizer), his swing coach (swing stabilizer), and now his caddy (crowd stabilizer). And all were choices he made; the best decisions he could arrive at. Which shows just how mentally lost he is. Three stabilizers, gone.

My take on all this is that Tiger lost his true stabilizer when his father died. Earl Woods told Tiger what to do and Tiger did it, no questions asked. So what he needs at this point is someone he can totally trust to make decisions for him. If he were in a 12-step program, such a person would be called a sponsor.

He is self-will run riot.

But that’s for the long haul. My immediate advice for Tiger, which I am positive he will not take, is shut it down. All of it. Not just for the remainder of the 2011 season, but 2012 as well. Do not even touch a club or look at a golf course for a year. Tour the world. Go bang some Thai babes. Climb a mountain. Swim with sharks. Refresh, relax, refocus. He needs to heal - mentally, physically, spiritually.

And find a sponsor. Get rid of the sycophants and yes men, and find someone that he will entrust with all his decisions that has the courage to tell him when he's screwing up. Let that person pick his caddy, his swing coach. Let that person tell him where to be and when, so all Tiger has to do is what he does - or used to do - better than anyone on the planet. Win golf tournaments.

Because it has become extremely evident that his best thinking is destroying him.

Tea For None

Disclaimer: I’m going to get political.

One of the more compelling developments in recent politics is the rise of the Tea Party movement. Apparently this is a grass roots movement of fed-up, overtaxed individuals sick of government waste. Well, at least that’s how they describe themselves. Others would call them xenophobic, unrealistic whiners.

I prefer to call them posers.

Why? Simple. Their angst only started after the 2008 presidential election, when a guy they didn’t support - for whatever reasons up to and including his skin color - won. Realizing in this day and age that abject racism is not tolerated, they had to come up with a more creative way to show their disdain for a decision that an overwhelming majority of Americans made at the polling booth. Fifty-three percent of the popular vote and over 300 electoral votes be damned - they wanted their country back!

Well, there’s their first mistake. It was never taken from them. They simply got out-voted. As a result of this, their subsequent actions must be tempered by their denial of the basic bedrock fact of our country - the person with the most votes wins. Every time. Since 1776.

But this isn’t about that.

What this is about is their abject hypocrisy. To recap, they’re mad as hell over being over-taxed. Okay. So exactly what did Obama do to cause this anger? What taxes did he raise? Hey, my paycheck didn’t shrink after he was elected. In fact, Obama reduced taxes after taking office. So I basically do not understand their core premise.

Well actually I do. Because it is a smokescreen for their real issue.

Their next argument is runaway government spending. Okay. So where were they when Bush invaded Afghanistan and Iraq without raising the necessary taxes to fund those excursions? Or when he provided a giveaway to drug companies with an unfunded prescription drug program? Or when he took a budget surplus left to him from the Clinton Administration and turned it into a massive deficit? Where was their screaming then?

It didn’t exist. Because they didn’t exist. It was created after a guy they didn’t like won an election.

Look, I understand. Politicians spend money. But the key word there is politicians - not just Democrats. As close as I can tell the main difference between the parties is Democrats spend money they have and Republican spend money they don’t have. Disagree? Then re-read my paragraph above regarding what Bush spent money on that we didn’t have. And also explain how Clinton ended his term with a surplus. I can hear the comeback now - 'Obama spent a trillion that we didn't have on a stimulus package!' Well, true. Because he subscribes to the Keynesian theory of economics that states that investment in infrastructure employs people and spurs economic development. It was his way of getting the country ouf of the deep recession he found us in when he took office.

Now I do agree with the Tea Party’s contention that Washington spends too much money - it can and certainly should go on a fiscal diet. So with this basic understanding, the debate now shifts to what to cut. And that is an entirely separate discussion that I choose not to get into at this time. Just a teaser - defense spending needs to be on the table in that discussion.

But anyway. Back to the main point I am making here. The Tea Posers. This supposed altruistic group of patriots that thinks this country is going to hell in a hand basket. It is time to call them out for what they really are.

Sore losers. With a side of racism.

Dude, seriously?

As many know, my career is public transit management. On the glamour scale it does not even register. But I like it and I am pretty good at what I do, which is providing vital transportation services for those that do not have the luxury of a personal vehicle or for those that choose not to drive. Believe it or not, there are many such people.

Which brings me to the biggest misconception of transit riders - that they’re nothing but a collection of ex-convicts, DUI offenders or societal misfits.

Not true.

I challenge anyone to ride any route in our system (LYNX in Orlando), and tell me who they see. For those unwilling or unable to do so, let me do the work for you. Over two-thirds of our riders use the bus for employment purposes. In other words, to get to & from work. Not the welfare office, not to see their probation officer. To get to work. The other one third? Tourists. Shoppers. And yes, some homeless people. Hey it gets ballz hot here, and sometimes they just want a few minutes of a/c.

Much of my career has been defending these misconceptions. Oftentimes we actually have to adjust service based on fear, not reality. And the biggest fear I hear is, transit brings criminals to neighborhoods. Well here’s a very eye-opening article that talks to this -

http://www.tripplannermag.com/index.php/2011/06/burglar-on-a-bus/

Let’s elaborate on this for a moment. There are actually people out there that think someone is going to hop off a bus, rob a store (or a home) and then stand at a bus stop awaiting the Number 43 bus as their getaway vehicle.

Hey, crooks can be stupid, but nobody’s that moronic.

I am not a shoplifter. Never stolen anything from a store in my life. But if I were to do it, Here’s how I would: First, I would get a four-door car with big windows. Second, I would get a driver. Third, I would have the car idling right outside the store’s entrance, driver behind the wheel while I snatched an armful of Armani suits off the rack, bolted for the door, dove into the back seat of the car & told the driver to haul ass.

I can assure you I wouldn’t go to the closest bus stop and wait.

Recently a group of homeowners petitioned me to have recently-installed bus stops removed from their area because it brought “those people” to their bucolic slice of Americana. They told me that ‘strange people’ were prowling their neighborhoods after the bus stops were installed. They insisted, recruited the help of their local city commissioner, and much like a Casey Anthony protester, got very loud with the insistence they were right. Well, they’re not. They are wrong. But they did end up winning their little battle. I had to remove the bus stop signs.

However, I could not help but to point out to them that felons drive cars too.

Macho Golf

It is Saturday morning, July 16, and I am enjoying slowly waking up on my day off with a cuppa coffee and, for four days out of the year, the British Open on TV.

Due to the five-hour time difference, it is mid-afternoon there which for a golfer like me makes for delightful early morning viewing of relevant golf. By relevant I mean not Golf Channel pre-game chuckleheads waxing on about whether Sergio can overcome his yips but actually watching Sergio on the fifth green…where he just yipped a putt.

This year they are playing at Royal St. George’s on Britain’s southeast coast where my fellow Kent State alum Ben Curtis stunned the golfing world with his Open win in 2003. Yesterday it was sunny, 80 degrees. Players in short sleeves. Today the heavens have opened up and it is raining sideways with wind gusts up to 40 miles an hour.

Play suspended? Nope. Play on, gentlemen.

There are many differences between golf on this side of the pond and the brand played over where the game was invented. For example, what the Brits consider a beautiful golf course comes across our television screens as something from the far side of the moon. No trees, no discernable target lines…just a flat horizon. The only water hazard is the English Channel. The bunkers are more like bomb craters. Over here, we revere courses that have been primped and preened like a self-absorbed diva, where every blade of grass stands at attention. Over there, the condition of the course refers to whether the wind is coming out of the east or west and how much the flagstick is bending.

Over here, if you’re 140 yards from the hole it’s a stock 8-iron. Every time. Over there, it’s anything from a 3-iron to a putter. Over here, it’s an air game. There, it’s a ground game – a matter of judging which way the ball is going to carom. Apparently perfect shots end up in waist-high gorse. Butt-ugly shoulder-high semi-shanks can end up ten feet from the hole. It’s pinball-machine golf, and many Americans hate it.

I love it.

And the reason is, it taps into the side of the brain rarely used over here. The creative side. Over here it’s give me a yardage & the club that I hit that distance, period. Over there, there is far more sensory input needed to arrive at a decision. It’s thinking-man’s golf. Here, it’s grip ‘n rip. There, it’s aim at the church steeple in the distance that’s 45 degrees left of the fairway.

And the other main difference in the games on either side of the pond is the conditions they play in. As I mentioned, it is presently raining hard there, and I can assure you that play will not be suspended. To be fair, the main reason is they rarely have lightning over there, but I have seen play suspended over the threat of rain over here. In other words, play will be stopped before it even starts raining. No such softness over there.

Play on, gentlemen.

It bears noting that no American golfer has won a Major over the last year and a half. The last two U.S. Open champs have come from Northern Ireland. A South African won The Masters this year. Now, part of this is due to Tiger Woods being on the shelf, but I think there is something else going on. American golfers have turned into wussies. Case in point, I am watching Bubba Watson half-heartedly hitting shots out there with a ‘WTF am I doing here’ look on his face while Rory McIlroy has a determined, champion’s mien to him.

Hey Bubba, it’s raining on everyone out there.

Jack Nicklaus used to say that whenever he played a tournament and he heard someone complain about weather or conditions, he would mentally disqualify that person from winning. He reasoned that those players have already lost because they already made excuses. Winners don’t complain. Winners don’t make excuses. They accept, and then they excel. And the British Open is a textbook example of this mindset, which would explain why Jack’s name is on the Claret Jug...three times.

Play on, gentlemen.

The Youngest Student

I decided Sunday morning to go hit some golf balls before the blast furnace that is Orlando’s summer hit full force. It gets Africa hot here in the summer, and if you try to do anything outdoors in the afternoons you’re basically a masochist or have a real twisted idea what fun is.

So I get to the driving range at 8:30 in the morning. By then it was ‘only’ 85 degrees. Still bearable. I get my bucket and head over to the range and start warming up. About halfway through the bucket I look up and here comes a young family - mom and dad, with two young children in tow. The boy was about eight and the little girl couldn’t have been more than three. Each had their own sets of clubs. And I gotta say, being a golfer, nothing is cuter to me than a little kid with their own set of teeny-tiny golf clubs.

But anyway. Just to the right of me were three open spots, and of course, this is where the family decides to set up shop. Mom was at the station closest to me, dad was furthest away, and they put the two kids between them, both hitting out of the same station.

I could see the disaster unfolding.

The boy was flailing away, sending balls in every direction. The little girl was trying to figure out which end of the club to hold. The parents were semi-oblivious to their plight, as they were hitting their own shots. Their attitude seemed to be, every man for themselves. You kids play nice.

Yeah right. I have older siblings. We never played nice.

Not five minutes later, the crying started. It was the little girl. Apparently her older brother hit her with one of his shots, or his club or something, because she was not happy. Out came the ‘Ahhhhhh…..’ followed by that interminable pause that kids have in order to build up to a big explosive cry. Bam - “He hit me…I don’t WANNA pway goff no more!”

Mom shepherded the little girl away from the firing line and I could hear her - “Amelia, honey, you have to be quiet - other people (meaning me) are trying to hit their shots.” Yeah, like she cared - “I don’t WANNA PWAY GOFF NO MOOOOOORE! WAHHHHHHHH”

This had to stop. So I made eye contact with the mom with a ‘Do you mind if I help?’ look. Mom, who was looking for any kind of help, because dad was not going to be bothered, gave me that look that you usually see from people who accidentally fall into a lake; that ‘For the love of God throw me a rope’ look.

So I said ‘Hey Amelia, come over here.’ She shuffled over, head down & sniffling. I then did what her parents should have done in the first place - I teed up a ball for her. Her parents let her fend for herself and she was trying to hit balls off the ground. Lemme tell you, I have trouble hitting balls off the ground, and I’m not three years old with a cantankerous brother behind my back swinging crazily with the realization that at any moment I could be impaled.

So I teed up a ball for her and I told her to swing real hard at it. She did. It went about 50 feet. And she turned to me with this surprised look on her face, as in, did I just do that? I teed up another. Again, she hit it a little further than the first one. Now she was smiling. “I wanna do it ‘gin.” Well, she did id it ‘gin. And ‘gin and ‘gin. Now she was laughing. I looked at the mom. She shot me a ‘ohmygod…thank you’ look.

My pleasure. Because here’s the thing. Yes, I was trying to help out the situation, but there were selfish motives. I was not going to have any peace in order to resume my practice until we resolved The Amelia Situation. Well I was able to, and a few minutes later the family was done with their attempt at Bonding Through The Driving Range experience. As they were walking away, I yelled out, ‘Hey Amelia’…she turned around and I said ‘Bye Bye.’ She gave me a smile and a wave and said ‘Bye Bye.’

So if 20 years from now, an LPGA rookie named Amelia wins a tournament, I hope she thanks me.

Of Doors And Windows

I know my blog does not have a ton of readers. But notwithstanding, I try to stay away from intimate details of my life for fear of some learning more about me than I wish. However, I am in an expansive mood. A good mood. As my sponsor says, enjoy it while it lasts.

Yes. My sponsor.

I made a decision a couple of months back to re-commit myself to a 12-step program of recovery. Nothing catastrophic caused this decision (thankfully), I was just seeing my life unfolding in a way I did not like. So I felt changes were in order. I have some experience in these programs, and I recalled that when I was active in them my life seemed more enjoyable. So deductive reasoning said well gosh Jer, why don’t you do that again?

To set the table, I was engaging in some behavior that would not result in good ends (vagueness intentional). I was also going through a breakup with my now ex-girlfriend that was causing some emotional pain, which I was trying to dull with alcohol. The net result was I was a walking zombie - emotionally and physically compromised. And spiritually bereft.

So changes were in order.

There is a saying - When God closes a door He opens a window. I can sit here and tell you this is an utter and total fact. Definitely in my case, as certain ‘doors’ of my life closed, hopefully for good. And others have opened. And now I will tell you about that.

I have a new, dear friend. We both walked into the rooms the same day. She left her life in another Florida town where alcohol compromised her designs of a happy life. She had it all planned out - a career job, a great relationship. Marriage, a home by the sea, children awaited her. In short time she lost her job and found herself shepherded by her parents back here in Orlando. When I met her she was depressed, and rightfully so. Her plans got mulched, or at the very least, put on hold. Her future seemed uncertain and frightening to her.

Well, so did mine. So we had that, among other things, in common.

We now attend meetings together. We sit together. We talk. And I am in the enviable position of watching someone besides myself, grow. She smiles a lot now, and it is a beautiful smile. She talks less about what she has lost and more about what life has in store for her. She has, just like me, seen God close a door and open a window.

A wonderful aspect of recovery is, over time, we concern ourselves less with our own little grand designs and become more interested in others. We become less selfish. And through this transformation, we become happy, because we are happy for others. So I am happy for me, but more importantly, I am happy for her.

A couple months back I wrote a story entitled 'Let's Talk About Me', which was, in retrospect, me on a self-pity kick. I lamented about how I could not make relationships work. Well now I am starting to understand why. And it is with this newfound perspective coupled with an un-fogged mind, that I find myself often tearing up. Tears of gratitude. Good tears. And it is through this new, gratitude tears-induced prism, that I can see the wonderful things that await me and others.

I am enjoying the moment. But even more cool than that, I can't wait until tomorrow.

What I Think

Look, I understand. Given the saturation of so-called experts, wall-to-wall media coverage, and the high emotions involved with a mother accused of killing her daughter, what I believe hardly matters.

But I got a blog. So I will weigh in on my thoughts on the Casey Anthony verdict.

For the past three years, I was itching for this trial to start. All information pointed to the fact that Casey was looney tunes, to the point that she would actually kill her daughter just so she could party like a porn star. Everything I heard leading up to the trial had me convinced that she was not a person worthy of inhabiting the planet I walk around on. I wanted her tried, convicted & fried.

So the trial started, and I was anxious to see the evidence that tied her to the murder. When Baez threw out the ‘drowned in a pool by accident’ defense, I was even more convinced that she was guilty. Drown in a pool? Then the death unreported for 31 days? What kind of sick family is this? Oh, she’s going down, I thought.

So again. I awaited the evidence that conclusively tied her to the crime. And I waited some more. I heard about duct tape with no DNA. Searches on the computer for chloroform. A car trunk that smell of death. Casey’s tattoo. Pics of her partying. A sum total of evidence that would make an ordinary Joe conclude, yup, she did it.

But that’s not how our system works.

To convict someone of murder the burden of proof has to be inarguable. There has to be no reasonable doubt. That is why circumstantial evidence does not work. That duct tape had to have Casey’s DNA on it. That car trunk had to have verifiable proof that Caylee was in there, dead. The prosecution could never prove those things. Defense argued that masterfully, understanding all along that Prosecution could not exceed the bar of reasonable doubt.

After closing arguments were made, I predicted she would be acquitted. Therefore it was no surprise when she was. Others were shocked and understandably so, but they were going off of emotion based on what they wanted to see happen, not what was presented, and not with an understanding of what is required to convict someone of murder. Reasonable doubt was established. It was entirely possible she died in the swimming pool because the state could not prove otherwise.

In the end, this is our judicial system. One that goes to painstaking lengths to ensure innocent people are not punished. In order for this to occur, oftentimes guilty people are freed. And this is the way it should be. We already incarcerate people in this country at a rate six times higher than China. If our judicial pendulum swung in favor of circumstantial evidence being the barometer for conviction, that rate would be even higher.

And if that were the case, the only growth industry left in this country would be prison construction.

So in the end, the system worked exactly as it should have. If you are one of those that did not like the verdict, then you are essentially saying you do not like the method in which we determine guilt in our courtrooms. And that's fine, but just understand that.

I think she did it. I think she killed her daughter so she could live the partying lifestyle. But what I think does not matter. My opinions, thankfully, are not admissible in a court of law.

And I am thankful that yours aren't either.



Relax

As many know, I constantly use golf as a metaphor for life, and for good reason. Seems more truths about life manifest themselves through my excursions on the links.

A few weeks back, during one of my Wednesday night rounds of golf with My Man Mike, I was lamenting about my swing when I said, “You know Mike, it seems like when I don’t play for a while, I swing too hard.” To which Mike replied, “Yeah Jer…you and everyone else.”

Ding Ding Ding.

I try too hard. We all try too hard.

To elaborate, whenever I haven’t played golf for a while and I pick up a club, I simply swing too fast, trying to kill the ball. This does not work. The intricacies and timing of the golf swing cannot properly be executed when the time you take to do them is truncated. The swing is as complex as you want to make it, but essentially it comes down to efficient placement of the center of the clubface on the ball at impact. And to do this requires smooth movement, not brute force. Swing hard, and your chances of making contact with the center of the clubface greatly diminishes. Hello water hazard and triple bogey.

And it has been my experience that this is subconscious behavior. In other words, I just automatically do it. And further, the only way to stop doing it is to beat my body into submission. I have to hit hundreds of balls until I tire out so that all the energy I have left is to make a smooth, lazy swing. Well guess what happens then. Yup, The ball springs off the clubface, directly at the intended target. And when this happens I just end up laughing at myself. I then take the relaxed swing to the course and I play great.

Now. Apply this lesson to life. I cannot speak for others but only for myself, but I will dare say this – don’t we all try too hard? Don’t we all over-impart our will on a situation until we make the situation worse or simply tire out? I certainly do. And again, in my case, it is subconscious behavior. That’s just where my brain automatically goes. ‘I have to do this…I have to do that.’ When the true answer is, I don’t have to do anything. I just have to relax.

I have recently made some fundamental positive changes in my life (vagueness intentional). Changes that were both needed and wanted. By making these changes, I have put much of my effort on instilling these changes while letting other aspects of my life just be. And guess what is happening – those other aspects of my life are unfolding quite nicely. In other words, they didn’t need my attention, or in keeping with my theme here, over-attention. They didn’t need me to ‘do something’ about. They just needed me to get out of the way. Because here’s the truth about these situations – they will unfold just as they are supposed to, whether I like them or not, and whether I ‘do something’ about them or not.

If you suffer from Type-A Personality Sickness like I do, this is an easy remedy to whatever ails you.

Just relax.

Maybe Frankie Goes To Hollywood was right after all.

Swinging With The Enemy

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

Well, the fun never ends.

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

Nice, huh?

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

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

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

Lovely.

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

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

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

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

And rolled it right into the center of the cup.

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

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

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

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

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