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.

Memphis Blues, Not Blue

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

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

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

I get freekin’ Memphis.

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

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

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

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

What a fun place.

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

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

Thanks a lot, Marc Cohn.

My Man Mike

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

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

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

Awesome decision.

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

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

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

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

“Because it’s fun.”

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

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

And I’ll fight you for him.

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

Elevator Music

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The irony.

Let’s Talk About Me

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

I love that phrase.

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

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

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

A little of me goes a long way.

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

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

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

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

It’s always about me.

Automatically Wrong

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He wasn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

Some people just cannot accept a black man being president.

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