Inconsequential Consequences

The other day I was having a chat with a coworker, who I discovered is, like me, a Democrat. During our talk, I mentioned that ‘we Liberals” think this certain way, when she interrupted me and said, “I am not a Liberal. I am a Progressive.”

That was a head-scratcher for me, as I had never really pondered what the difference is. She then explained that it mainly had to do with differing views on Democratic fiscal policy, where Liberals believe more in a safety net for individuals approach where Progressives advocate more of a safety net on a macro scale, such as regulations in the food and drug industries, for the public good.

Remember that phrase ‘public good’ – I will be coming back to that later.

I did some on-line research, based on our discussion, to delve further into the purported differences, because, quite frankly, I have only heard this label ‘Progressive’ being used in recent years. Back in the day, Democrats were Liberals and Republicans were Conservatives. Ah, but not any more – there are New Democrats, Compassionate Conservatives, Red Dog Democrats, Tea Party Conservatives and so on. So, while doing my research, I found that the real reason for the moniker ‘Progressive’ is that the word ‘Liberal’ has been demonized by the right – in other words, a different word was created meaning essentially the same thing that doesn’t have the sneer factor associated with it. Picture a 2010 Republican political ad – “Nancy Pelosi (invoke sneer here) Liberals in Congress…” It helps if you grit your teeth and snarl while you say it, for effect.

So if this is the case, that Liberal and Progressive essentially mean the same thing, then call me either. Just do so with a level of dignity, please. If you can, then read no further. If you cannot, then I implore you to read on, because that would mean you are a snarler.

I mentioned public good earlier. This phrase enrages the right, as to them it is a buzzword for Nanny State, Huge Government and the like. And the right abhors such things – recently-announced Presidential candidate Rick Perry, in his announcement speech said that, if elected, he will make “Washington as inconsequential to your life as possible.”

Well that’s uplifting. Elect him and he will embark on deconstructing. Hope your 401K rebounds before you retire, since Social Security will likely evaporate with that kind of mindset.

But that’s not the ‘public good’ I was thinking of. It is another one, and it has ties to both Perry and, more directly, Michelle Bachmann, another Republican running. It has to do with the HPV vaccine. For those that do not know, HPV is a virus that is rather prevalent in young women that could lead to cervical cancer. Well fear not, as there is a vaccine, which, administered to girls around the age of 12, can pretty much eradicate that possibility. It is a simple as getting a shot and removing the possibly heinous way of dying. Awesome.

Ah, but hold on a sec – Bachmann has inside information about this vaccine that apparently the medical world is not privy to. See, she was at a campaign stop last week when a person told her that a friend’s daughter had the vaccine and contracted mental retardation as a result. Stop the presses!

So let’s recap. We have the combined wisdom and research of the medical community versus what a Republican candidate was told by someone about someone else’s daughter. In a rational world, this is no contest. Unfortunately for them, Republicans left rational at the station when they jumped on the Tea Party Express.

So, why would anyone – even the far right – actually be against a vaccine that will save lives? Sadly, it is a simple answer, and one that should give everyone pause – to their way of thinking, giving young girls a vaccine that has to do with the cervix implies tacit approval of teen sex. And we all know that is bad. Ergo, in order to maintain their indefensible position they have to demonize the vaccine through the use of innuendo.

What does this have to do with Perry? Well, let me first state that I think if he is elected (which he won’t; our country has had our fill of Texas swagger in the White House, thank you very much) we are in serious trouble, I have to give him much credit for approving the use of the HPV vaccine for Texas schoolgirls while he was governor. Now that’s a Compassionate Conservative.

But Bachmann is not part of that cadre. Too Liberal for her tastes. And she’s twenty points down in the polls to Perry. So out trots twisted logic straight out of Ferris Bueller implying that since she heard from someone who heard from someone that was at 31 Flavors last night that the vaccine may have dire side effects we should immediately halt the administration of it. Let women die a horrible death for the purpose of political gain.

Disgraceful.

So to summarize, on one side of the political spectrum you have the belief of research and medical advances. On the other you have hearsay and innuendo that, interestingly, is anti-women. And anti-science. Well excuse me Mr. Perry, but that is hardly ‘inconsequential.’ And excuse me, Ms, Bachmann, but I don't give rat's ass what some wingnut told you in passing at a political rally. To me, that is inconsequential. And that it isn't to you, is alarming.

So remember this story. And remember public good. Based on that alone you cannot in good conscience ever vote for these people. Young women will die.

That is not inconsequential.

I play alone…

…YEAHHH with nobody else…

I gave up drinking alone a while back so that activity has been mothballed, but for as long as I can remember I have enjoyed playing golf alone. I doubt George Thorogood would get inspired by such an activity. Whatever. Go have one bourbon, one scotch & one beer, George.

I just got off the course after a solo round, mainly because My Man Mike cancelled out of our weekly round. Damn job of his. Since I had already packed my change of clothes I decided to press on in his absence. So after work I went over to Winter Park Country Club, a delightful, walkable nine-hole layout about ten minutes from work.

Now, I really don’t want to bore with details, but I am going to anyway. Mainly because it wasn’t boring. A number of things happened during the round that were just plain weird, funny, inspiring, frustrating. In other words, a typical round. So here we go. Now on the tee, from Altamonte Springs, Florida via Cuyahoga Falls, Ohio …

Me.

First hole: I arrive to the tee just as a threesome of elderly Jamaican men were coming off the ninth green, and our paths intersected at the tee. Now, etiquette dictates that players making the turn (them) must yield the tee to players beginning their round (me). They obliged, and offered me to play through, which I accepted, but the problem was I hadn’t warmed up yet. So I let them hit their tee shots while I swung two clubs tying to get my back to pop. Each one of them was a good player, and the last guy swung cross-handed; in other words, he played right handed with a left-hander’s grip. Very rare. He proceeded to smack it about 220 yards down the middle. They then stepped to the side of the tee while I caught one pretty good, about 240 yards down the left side. We walked down the fairway together and we chatted. They were from Kingston originally.

So the round’s off to an interesting start…if you think a threesome of elderly Jamaicans, one with a crosshanded grip, is interesting. I do. I pitch onto the green and have a six-footer for birdie that I struck well but it horseshoed out on me. Tap in par. Off to a solid start.

Second hole: Short par 3, about 150 yards. I pull a 7-iron that settles pin high right, about 20 feet from Webster Avenue. Now this shot is hard enough, but when you have in the back of your mind the nagging thought that a dump truck could t-bone you at any second it adds a wrinkle of difficulty normally not accounted for. I have to hit a major flop shot over a bunker & catch it perfectly. The ball stops 6 feet past the pin, so I have basically the same putt that I did on the first. This time I made it. Par.

Third hole: Straightaway par 5, about 440 yards. I tag my drive about 250 with a peel-cut off the trees on the right. With about 185 to the green, I take out my trusty 7-wood and proceed to hit a skank pull-hook that rattles in the trees on the right. Ugh. For the third shot I have to execute another flop shot that I stick to, again, 6 feet. I run in the putt. Birdie. I’m one under. At this point I am glad I worked on my pitching the night before.

Fourth hole: Signature hold of the course. A right-to-left bending par 5 of about 530 yards. Left is death. Literally. Because it’s a cemetery. The play is to stay right off the tee and on the second shot to set up a wedge into the green, which is exactly what I did – drive in the right rough, a 3 wood down the right side, a punch sand wedge. Two putts, a solid par on the toughest hole on the course.

Now, I’ve got four holes under my belt, which is a good check point as to how I am doing. Well, shit, I’m one under. Got no complaints.

Fifth hole: Straightaway par 4. Road on left, trees right. And of course, I hit it where I always do. In the trees on the right. I only have about 100 yards left to the green but have to punch & run it due to the hanging branches, which I do, but a touch too firm and it rolls off the back of the green. Now, it bears noting that right behind the green is the intersection of two busy roads, and the evening rush hour traffic is humming behind me. I take my sand wedge, ball back in stance, and hit a perfect pitch shot. It lands about 15 feet short of the hole and starts rolling…and rolling…and…plop. Into the cup. A chip in birdie! Now, I may be playing alone, but I still celebrate, so I give it a fist-pump “YEAH!’ when the ball goes in. The next sound I heard was a car horn, and a guy yelling “NICE SHOT!” from his car in the adjacent intersection. I hollered a “THANK YOU!” at him and a doff of the cap.

God I love this game. And I’m now two under.

Sixth hole: Pretty little par 4, dogleg right, trees all the way down the right. Two ways to play it: There's the safe play which is a hybrid to the corner & a flip wedge to the green. Then there is the stupid way: Try to carry the trees on the right, cut the corner to go for the green.

I’m two under. Time to get stupid.

My driver is well struck but a touch low. Any other hole it would have been perfect. On this hole it’s jail. The ball rattles in the trees, which mercifully spit it into the fairway. Good break, but I have to hit another punch shot to the green, which came out just like the one on the previous hole – a touch hot, the ball settling off the back of the green. A tickly downhill chip leaves me ten feet from the hole. I run the putt in for a well-earned par.

Seventh hole: Short par 3, about 125 yards. I hit a smooth 9-iron to the middle of the green. Two putts later I have my par.

Checkpoint time. Seven holes down, I’m still two under. And I’m starting to think about it. Not good.

Eight hole: Basically a repeat of the seventh. A 125-yard par 3. I settle over my 9-iron with thoughts of ‘Wow I would really like to shoot under par’…this is exactly what NOT to think. I swing and the contact makes a sickening thud sound that occurs when the neck of the club hits the ball. We call that a shank. The ball goes dead left about 100 yards. I’m not loving this game so much now, but I am laughing at how much of an egotistical dumbass I am. I find my ball in the rough and hack out a sand wedge just trying to get it anywhere on the green. I did, and two putts later I register my first bogey on the round.

Final hole: Dogleg left par 4, trees left, parking lot right. Now, I’m one under, and I could just hit an iron & a wedge to the green, get my par and bask in an under par round. Well, what’s the fun in that? Out comes the driver, and there goes my ball into the parking lot, featuring a nice high bounce over a car leaving the lot. Well I’ll tell you something right now – I am finding that ball, I don’t care if it’s in Ocoee, and I am playing it. I find it, about 25 yards past the green, and I have your standard garden variety pitch shot over the parking lot, palm tree & bunker. Kid’s stuff. Needing one more good swing, instead I blade the pitch and it goes screaming into the palm tree, which, in this instance, acted like a parachute, depositing my ball on the green about 15 feet from the hole. Two putts later, I make a wild par and shoot a very satisfying one-under 34.

So to recap, in an hour & a half I met three Jamaicans, had a honking gallery cheer my birdie, shanked a stock nine iron, and damn near took out a Lexus with one of my drives.

Just a typical day on the links.

Nine Eleven...Fifty Eight

So I got up this morning knowing that today is my birthday. In celebration, given that it’s a Sunday, my first act was sleeping in. As I trudged from bathroom to the kitchen to get a glass of juice & take my morning meds, I had a nice feeling knowing that, on my computer, there would be some nice messages from friends and family. Sure enough, there were. Seventeen emails, a couple of e-cards. People posted to my Facebook page their well-wishes. I read through them and I smiled. Then I turned on the television. It was 8:46 a.m. 

The moment the first plane hit the World Trade Center ten years ago.

And I got somber. Up until that moment it was a nice morning. It instantly switched to what the rest of the world knows September 11 as. I watched transfixed the moment of silence, followed by the President reading from the Bible. Then people took turns reading names of the deceased at the podium. Ten minutes later, they had only gotten to the B’s.

We all remember where we were ten years ago. It is one of the timestamps on our lives that we each will never forget. For me, I was celebrating my 43^rd birthday with a morning smoke outside my office (I still smoked at the time). A man came out of an adjoining building telling me we were at war. I thought he was nuts. Going back into my office I found out the awful truth on the television. There were the smoldering towers, one plane crashed into each, eventually falling to the ground.

And I get selfishly mad. My thought was ‘These motherfuckers did this on my birthday.’

I am not very proud of that thought, as lost at the moment was the gross human sacrifice while my mind stayed self-centered on how it affected me. But that’s me. I am a contradiction of thoughts, as most are, and goddammit, this was about me, not about those poor souls who were jumping from the towers to their deaths. When the towers fell, I finally gave up any thoughts of it being a day of personal celebration and accepted the realization that the day that marks my entrance into the world concurrently marks the exit of 2,983 others at the hands of terrorists.

Prior to 2001, I used to tell people how to remember my birthday. It’s what you dial in an emergency. No such memory jogs are needed now.

So, on this and every September 11 from here forward and hence, you all will remember what this day truly means.

For me, it means another candle on the cake.

Happy Birthday Arnie!

Today is September 10. Tomorrow, September 11, is my birthday. Virtually the entire world knows September 11 for another event that happened 10 years ago, but I stubbornly refuse to get drawn into that since, 43 years prior to planes crashing towers, I was born. So I’ve been around longer than the terrorists. But as I stated, this is September 10. And 82 years ago today, Arnold Daniel Palmer was born. I’ve always been kinda proud that me & Arnie darn near share the same birthday.

I grew up in Ohio, and one of my personal heroes is Jack Nicklaus. Heck, I even named my son after him (no, not Jack, his name is Nicholas…different spelling but same pronunciation). Jack is widely known as the greatest golfer ever, as his record is unmatched. Nobody took hold of golf tournaments and finished them off better than Jack. When his name appeared on the leaderboard the rest of the field would do a collective ‘Oh shit’ and usually fold. Definitely the most respected and feared competitor ever to step onto a course.

But Arnie was the most loved.

I had the pleasure to watch Arnie play back in his heyday of the late 60’s and early 70’s. I remember my first impression of him was how big his forearms were. I was maybe ten years old, and my dad had pretty good forearms by virtue of being a plumber by trade, but after seeing Arnie’s, there was no doubt that he would destroy my dad in arm wrestling. They were huge!

The other thing I remember from that encounter was Arnie had a charisma and connectivity to the gallery no golfer has ever had. On one tee, hundreds of people, including me, awaited his arrival. When he came through the ropes, the applause was on a decibel level reserved for heads of state. Perhaps this is why his nickname is The King. Anyway, Arnie had this habit of scanning the gallery, looking people right in the eye. And on this day, he did that with me – for a brief instance, Arnold Palmer looked 10-year-old Jerry straight in the eye and gave me a slight nod of his head and a wink. At that moment I was in orbit and had my hero chosen. Arnie looked at me!

As I came to find out, this was a regular occurrence with Arnie. He played to the crowds, sometimes to the detriment of his game. Oftentimes he was goaded into hitting a shot he should not have tried because the gallery insisted he go for broke. Coincidentally, that was the name of one of his books – Go For Broke. In contrast, I cannot imagine Jack ever letting the gallery dictate what shot he was going to hit. For Jack, the course was the forum for him to strategically navigate in the fewest strokes possible. For Arnie, it was his stage, and he had the leading role. And he played it to the hilt. This is why, win or lose, Arnie was and always will be The Man to many.

Arnie had/has a homemade swing. Nothing technically correct about it, as he would essentially ‘muscle’ the ball with a low penetrating draw that never seemed to get more than ten feet off the ground. His strategy was pretty much one-dimensional – hit it as hard as you can, go find it, then hit it hard again. Jack, on the other hand, was the quintessential strategist – he would hit whatever off the tee he determined would result in the lowest score on the hole – it could be a driver, 3-wood or 6-iron. Arnie was not so nuanced. It was driver. Every time.

As a result, Arnie did not win as many tournaments as he should have. He won more than 70 PGA tour events but only seven Majors. That total should have easily been double. Specifically, he lost the 1966 U.S. Open when he had a 7-shot lead with 9 holes to play. And he even admits that, at that point in time, his focus was not on winning the tournament but of breaking the all-time U.S. Open scoring record of 272. Jack would have never let that kind of thought enter his mind. If Jack were up 7 on the 10^th tee, he would make sure he was still up 7 on the 18^th tee. Arnie’s tragedies on the course just endeared himself more to his fans. Eventually it was not a matter of him winning or losing, it was just him being there, swashbuckling his way around the course.

Go Arnie…BABY!!

There’s an anecdote, I believe penned by Dan Jenkins, which most accurately described the Jack versus Arnie dynamic. The Golf Gods turned to Jack and said, ‘You will be the most successful, feared golfer who ever lived’, and then they turned to Arnie and said ‘But they will love you more’. And that is exactly what has happened. Jack is respected. Arnie is adored.

Living in Orlando, Arnie sightings are a common occurrence during the winter months. He has a home in Bay Hill and plays golf every day. Funny isn’t it – his career was playing golf, and he retired…to the golf course. And the folks at Bay Hill say Arnie’s out there every morning slapping balls, trying to find the ‘secret’ that will make him better…at age 82!

So in about an hour I am going to go play golf with a couple of friends. And I think, in celebration of Arnie’s  birthday, I will try to pull off a couple of shots I have no business trying.

Happy Birthday Arnie. Fire at a flag.

You Get What You Get

I was sitting here doing some amusing musing about the great complexities of life. You know, why are we here, how come bad things happen to good people, why haven’t the Browns ever made it to a Super Bowl…that kind of stuff. A couple weeks back I wrote about the strange twists and turns that a golf ball makes and how perfect strategy can avail you nothing while horrible shots can sometimes turn out good. The kinds of things that make many folks go nuckin futz trying to figure out.

For example, by all accounts Casey Anthony killed her kid, yet was found not guilty. Meanwhile, some poor soul who was just minding their business walking down the street gets blindsided by a bus. For those agnostically-inclined, this seems to be proof that there is no God. For the more pious, they would say that He works ‘in mysterious ways’.

I don’t think either is the case.

I don’t believe in justice. And the reason I don’t is that is a subjective term that varies in definition from individual to individual. My definition of justice may make you vomit, and vice versa. Further, using the examples from the last paragraph, the agnostic may think the only place ‘justice’ can be administered is in the courtroom since there is no supreme being, whereas the religious folks would say that the only one that can truly mete justice out is the One we meet upon vacating this earth. So, as it applies to Casey Anthony, the agnostic may say ‘she beat the system but karma will get her’ and the righteous may say ‘God will judge her.’ Justice is subjective and cannot be agreed upon. And further, on a personal level, it's not even something I desire.

My point of this isn’t to elicit opinions on Casey Anthony. I pretty much know what they are anyway. It is to point out the vagaries of perception in individuals, and further, my journey in trying to find what I truly believe is fairness. Well, here’s what I have concluded:

Nothing is fair, but everything is fair. Confused? I will elaborate.

Each person’s life is made up of thousands of incidents, some good some not so good. And if you were to take each instance on its own merit, rarely do we get what we deserve. I break the speed limit damn near every time I drive, yet I still have my driver’s license. On the flip side I treat people with respect and fairness, yet I am still single and alone. Now - take that one individual with their thousands of instances and multiply it by the 4 billion people on this globe and you have trillions of incidents. And if you take the sum of all these incidents and were to determine if fairness won the day, you would have to say yes. In other words, on a macro level it’s all good. On the individual incident level, nothing is fair. We don’t get what we deserve; we don’t get what we want.

We get what we get.

So I am sure some of you are saying ‘How Zen of you, Jer’. But the reason I have come to this conclusion is to adequately define, to my level of satisfaction, why apparently good people get screwed over while apparently bad people go through life unfettered by either incarceration or safes falling on their heads. Because that’s just how it is. I believe in God, but my definition of Him isn’t as a scorekeeper or an entity making sure everything is doled out fairly on a person-by-person level. I just think the randomness of our self will being imparted into the realm of everyone else’s self will creates conflict. And I cannot control traffic, weather, or how my golf ball bounces. I can just prepare the best I can, and execute to the best of my ability. I will either get what I deserve or I won’t.

And I am good with that. Because, honestly, what else can we do, outside of cursing God or picketing the Orange County Courthouse? So fine - be your own judge on what is fair, and feel free to be outraged when that paradigm is besmirched. I just want to be happy. So while you’re busy being pissed off, I’ll be on the golf course slapping drives towards water hazards that hit a rock and bound into the middle of the fairway, and hitting putts destined to go into the center of the hole only to be knocked off line by a spike mark. And I will smile, knowing that there’s no cosmic force out there trying to get me or doling out fairness to me…no unseen deity making sure I am getting what I deserve.

Just getting what I get.

Life Is Just a Fantasy

With the start of the NFL season just a few days away, it is time for my annual rant about what has become a mega-million dollar industry. No, I am not talking about the actual football games themselves, I am talking about an offshoot of the games that has contributed mightily to the popularity of the sport:

Fantasy football.

Most everyone knows what fantasy football is, but for those unfortunate few that have lived their last twenty years in Croatia, I will burn a couple of sentences explaining: You draft your own ‘team’ of NFL players that competes weekly against other such drafted teams. You may have the Jaguars Quarterback, the Dolphins Running Back & the Raiders Kicker as your team (and if you do, I feel sorry for you if you have to try to win games with Luke McCown, Reggie Bush & Sebastian Janikowski as your skill player but anyway…) and these players get points for your team based on how they perform - a Touchdown throw may be worth 4 points, a Field Goal three points, and so on. Add up all the points your players scored and hope it’s more than your opponent for that week. Lots of fun.

The reason it has drastically increased the interest in NFL football is twofold. One, it has pulled in the interest of people who otherwise would not give a rat’s rump about football. Secretaries who once thought Benjarvis Green-Ellis was a law firm now know he’s a damn good pick up in the sixth round. Secondly, for fans that root fervently for one team, fantasy football gives them a reason to watch other games. What used to be a groan of “Dang. The four o’clock game is St. Louis at Atlanta” has turned into “Oh cool. I got Roddy White and Sam Bradford on my team.”

And this is why the NFL has done a delicate dance with fantasy football. It is technically gambling, as teams usually pony up money that everyone plays for, and the NFL abhors gambling…or at least pretends that it does. But fantasy football has opened up the game to the masses that otherwise would not care about the game so the NFL does not want to squash anything that doesn't put more money in the owner's pockets. And honestly, even though there is money on the line, it is not in the raw, base form of calling your bookie to lay three and a half when the Ravens visit the Browns. Heck, NFL players play fantasy football, and many times they draft themselves. And further, many fantasy leagues are “free” wink wink nudge nudge…

I was playing fantasy football before it was even called fantasy football. Seriously. I started a league in 1988, back when it was called ‘Rotisserie Football’. This was before the internet, fantasy football magazines, cheat sheets and the like. Preparing for the draft consisted of buying a Street & Smith’s NFL preview magazine and writing down team’s depth charts. You then had to make a judgment call on whose running back would have a better year. So, my sheet may have Emmitt Smith listed first, yours may have Kevin Mack. Totally subjective with little rationale other than whom I liked. As a result, draft nights were major clusterfucks, with guys drafting Bubby Brister in the second round. These days that doesn’t occur, as everyone just shows up with their copy of the cheat sheet from their favorite fantasy mag.

As I was Commissioner of the league I had to calculate the results of the weekend’s games. This was done by getting up very early on Monday mornings, about two hours before I would normally do, put on a pot of coffee, grab the newspaper that had the box scores from the Sunday games, and do the math - “Let’s see…Troy Aikman threw for 221 yards and a score…that’s 12 points…”In other words, all you soft internet babies out there, no website did the work for you. It was paper ‘n pencil, and lots of revisions.

Which brings me to my final point. I know this game. So this is a gauntlet throw-down to anyone that thinks they can outsmart a guy that’s been doing this since before many current fantasy football participants were born. You think you know that Mike Vick is a stud? Why - cuz your precious Fantasy Mag said so? Ha. I laugh at you. I fart in your general direction. You only think you know, because some source is telling you something that you are too lazy to find out on your own.

Back in my day we used to eat dirt.

I just did 3 fantasy drafts this past weekend, and frankly I love all my teams. I made a couple of eyebrow-raising selections, but you watch - Mike Shanahan is gonna run the legs off of Tim Hightower in Washington, and Beanie Wells will be the main cog of Arizona’s offense. Got them in the fifth and sixth rounds respectively.

See if your precious fantasy magazine tells you that, Posers.

Clarity and Closure

I recall when I first got sober in 1996. I was maybe 2 months in at the time & I had a dull shuffle mien and a blank expression on my face. An old-timer came up to me and said, “The good news is, you’ll get your emotions back. The bad news is…you’ll get your emotions back.”

He was right. Old-timers in sobriety usually are.

This time around, I am sitting here with 3 ½ months since my last drink. Overall, I feel great. This is the fourth day of an extended long weekend and so far I have played golf twice, went to a movie, got my car fixed, bought a new computer, did a fantasy football draft, played cards, slept in, took naps. And hit 3 meetings (so far). Very relaxing.  

My mind is clearing well too. Hell, just look at the number of stories I’ve posted to this blog since late May. Sixteen and counting. My imagination’s fired and streams of thought are turning into torrential floods. Sometimes I cannot process things quickly enough. At work I’ve turned into a more lucid, ‘with it’ worker, able to think well on my feet. Mentally, it’s all good.

But the emotions. Oh my.

There’s a guy in the rooms with 23 years sober named Al. Every time he speaks he says the same phrase – “This is an emotion-driven disease!” The first few times I heard that I nodded semi-knowingly, since the brain was still foggy. Now when I hear it I just laugh. At myself. Because I now see how my emotions dictated my actions. If I felt a certain way, I acted on that feeling. Which, hey, is great if you’re with a partner that likes spontaneity, but as a general rule of thumb does not lend itself to long-term contentment or serenity. How many times, when asked why you did something did you answer, “I don’t know”…?

The real answer is, “Because my emotional state at the time made the decision.”

And why is this so bad? Well, for so-called normal people, it isn’t, since they more or less have control of their emotional state. They recognize irrational fear as a make-believe boogeyman that doesn’t need acknowledged…let alone acted upon. They don't process a look from a person as 'That bitch hates me'. They don't equate getting cut off in traffic as a reason to get shitfaced. That’s not the case with people in active addiction or early recovery. We feel it, we act on it. Subconsciously and automatically. And much like firing a shotgun blindfolded, we sometimes, by pure luck, hit the intended target. But much more likely, we haphazardly miss and make a mess in the process.

This is why there is a Ninth Step. To right those wrongs we committed by the scatter-shot approach we lived our lives, inflicting the damage on the innocent bystanders that had only the misfortune of being in our way. To make these amends, we need, first of all, clarity of mind. Second, we need to be spiritually fit – the amend is about our wrongs, not the other person’s, and if we are not fit spiritually, such an action can turn into an argument. Or worse. And lastly, it requires some modicum of control, or at the very least, acknowledgement, of our emotional state.

I am in the process of righting these wrongs. The family was pretty easy – they know me & I know them, and on my trip last month to Ohio I was able to do so. Siblings that wanted to hang me by my nuts four months ago I can now have normal relationships with again. People I’ve owed money have been repaid. Those were the easy ones.

But then there are the tougher ones. And one in particular. The ex-girlfriend. I have tried but she is unwilling to accept it. And that is okay – I hurt her and she still has the scars.

And this is exactly where my emotional state is critical. Do I engage in ‘old behavior’, which consists of demanding she listen to me, to see what am I trying to do…or do I just accept this is how she is and move on? The answer, to everyone not with an addictive mind, is obvious. To people like me, it takes some processing to get there. It takes reliance on the advice of a sponsor, a lot of meetings. It essentially takes a re-wiring of my thinking. And this is what I eventually conclude through this process - 

I cleared my side of the street. Time to move on. 

And you know what? It hurts. It hurts that this person, who so loved me, wants little to do with me now.

But that’s what happens when you fire a shotgun blindfolded.

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.