Another song stuck in my head!

Today it's "Hey Hey We're the Monkeys," which is probably even worse than The Guess Who. I really need some distraction!

Today, again

I am nearly going mad! I've had "Laughing" by The Guess Who stuck in my head for 2 days and it won't go away! Argh!!! Will nothing relieve this Canadian assault on my brain?

Easter

I want to wish everyone that celebrates Easter a very happy one. I don't personally get into it, but that is just me. However, I try to be a very tolerant person, so if your particular branch of faith and personal convictions lead you to celebrate, go and do it. Just don't try to convert me and accuse me of being some sort of commie for not wanting to participate. You have your world, I have mine.

I tend to favor the approach of the Tarahumara people:

Tarahumara

Golf in the Rain

So I played golf today. What a surprise!
Unlike last weekend's high winds, today possessed a charming combination of moderate wind and pretty steady rain. We mostly got soaked, but I didn't play too badly considering the conditions. I came very very close to hitting a hole in one, the closest in my life so far! 160 yards or so, downhill and into the wind. Missed the pin by about half an inch. I nearly wet myself!

Laundry

Today I was folding laundry, thinking about how this is one of my least favorite tasks. I had many loads to fold (because I dislike doing this so much and tend to let it pile up-- hey, who will care or see it?). I was thinking that I should post to my blog about how much I hate folding laundry; surely there are others out there that dislike this task.

About 1/3 of the way through I turned on the radio to NPR. On the program was a story about women military personnel who had served in Iraq and who had come back injured, some of them very severely. They were telling of their experiences. Stories of doing their jobs and then suddenly being blown up, ambushed, or otherwise attacked. Many of them didn't remember much except waking up in the hospital, discovering they were mutilated, burned, disfigured, maimed, or all of the above.

The common thread in their stories: courage and conviction to get back to life, to take care of their families, and to go on living a life that may never be normal. There wasn't any mention of the legitimacy of the war (which I won't go into here), just a unanimous voice of determination and guts.

I cannot help but admire these brave women, and feel deeply ashamed that I was on the verge of complaining about having to fold laundry. I hang my head in disgust at my self-absorbed, narrow-minded view of life when so many good women and men are out there putting themselves in harms way, getting injured, and dying. Again...I won't comment on the legitimacy of the war. This is irrelevant to their stories in this case.

I thank my lucky stars that I'm folding laundry, and I salute and admire each and every one of these courageous people.

May the war end soon, and bring our women and men home, where hopefully, they can fold laundry and complain about it, because that is the worst that they have to deal with.

God knows they have been through more than most of us can possibly imagine.

Playing golf in a hurricane, by (almost) Andrei Codrescu

It seemed like an innocent enough idea: go out and play some golf on a sunny March Saturday. I carefully packed my freshly-cleaned golf clubs into my car, along with a supply of fried pig fat, hot and spicy chex mix, jerky, and plenty of bottled water.

My good friend John would be there as well and things were looking bright in this world. I savored the thought of a perfect game, shooting par or below on every hole. I was going to be the hero, the one that old men would tell their grandchildren about for generations to come. They might even put up a plaque in my honor in the clubhouse, noting that I was the most talented player they had ever seen. I would be god-like, and remembered always in stories around golf clubhouses and campfires. It would be perfect.

I sped my car towards the course.

About three miles from leaving my house I noticed that there was a large amount of wind pushing my car from side to side. “This should pass quickly,” I muttered foolishly to myself.

It was about five miles later that the tumbleweeds clued me in. They were covering the road, as thick as mouse fur on a very very furry mouse. One that had been on mouse-fur steroids for quite some time. Some of the tumbleweeds were flying sideways, trying to attack my car like some sort of banshee with a very big chip on her shoulder. Many of them succeeded. I navigated my way slowly through the forest of tumbleweeds, trying not to hit too many of them, knowing it would be bad Karma to kill too many innocent dried up weeds, even though they were the size of small houses. I began doubt about playing today.

I ignored my inner thoughts that told me that playing today would be foolish at best and stupid at worst. Weighing the difference, I thought it best to proceed, plus John would be there, and he would expect to play, although he did not know that he was going to face the all time course champion, who would give no other man any quarter.

At this point I think it would be wise to fast forward to the end. The day was hellish, like something out of a Karl Rove autobiography. The wind never let up for a moment, and every shot had to be calculated adding 20 or 30 yards left or right, front to back, depending upon which way the hole was situated. The nearby freshly tilled farm fields provided a thick, constant wind full of dust, blowing so hard that at times you could not open your eyes for fear of them being sanded down like some sort of junior high shop class project. Visibility was down to about 50 yards at some times. I felt like Lawrence of Arabia, but was inappropriately dressed to play that role. Boxes from nearby construction sites ran across the course like midget monkeys on meth.

In the end, we endured, owing to our survival skills, junk food snacks, and not too many beers.

The next time we play, we will stay indoors and watch golf on TV, and eat the fried pig fat from our place in easy chairs with a side order of vodka. We will be the heroes that change the channel for the other clubhouse barflies. They may, after all, put up a plaque in our honor.

Saturday Night

I was officially fired by my girlfriend of nearly 3 years on Saturday night (well, ok, technically Sunday morning about 3 am. )

Life's like that. First your dog gets killed, then your girlfriend leaves you. I think I'll write a country & western song now. I have plenty of beer, and a keyboard.

Maybe I'll write that song just a little later, right now I'm just kind of stunned. I mean, I personally think I'm perfect...except for the major character flaws. But, hey, everyone has those, right? You would think she would get past the badger fornication, but I guess not. Just kidding...trying to make myself feel better.

Now where's that beer to cry in? 100th anniversary of Bob Wills's birth, and she does this. Dang.

Interlude, part the third

As I lean against the lamppost I realize: maybe I didn't call her. Maybe I'm waiting here for no reason. Was it just a thought that turned into reality for me, again? Damn. I wish I wasn't hooked on this stuff. I wish I was clean. I wish I could wake up in the morning like most people and not have an immediate need for a "fix." Fucking comic books. They are just way too accessible for most people. They suck you in and won't let you go.

I take another cigarette out of the pack in my pocket and look at the street light. "The city of San Francisco is doing a great job of keeping these working," I think to myself. "And they're well painted. Not garish."

I wait for her approaching car, wondering if this is all something I have made up in my mind. Am I really Spiderman? Or am I the Incredble Hulk? I just don't know anymore.

As another car climbs the hill and then passes, I decide to head home. Taking the Superman comic book out of my breast pocket, I pause for a moment before tossing it into the trashcan. "I don't need this," I think to myself, "I'm a real person, with feelings and needs." Just then I see a golf shop across the street. (OK, in reality we all know that there are no golf shops along fisherman's wharf in San Francisco, but give me some artistic license here!)

"Ah, now there's an obsession I can really get into."

$3000 later, I am "cool."

This is a golf ball. Be sure to hit at least 72 per day for proper health. I took this picture this afternoon in a spate or state of boredom.

OK, time now for some really BAD poetry

I wrote these in 1998 and just found them (along with about 50 more) again today. At the time, my father and grandfather had just died, and I got divorced. So...I was a bit fragile. I turned to poetry to express myself. Reading these now, I should have shut up! But, I think it's healthy to laugh at yourself. I do it all the time.
_____________________

Sirens

Sirens
Call gently ‘gainst the salt encrusted breeze
And I
Too worn to question
Accept all promises
as given

-------------

Dad

Scoffingly my father turned my opinions into dirt.
Then bragged about me behind my back.
And as we became friends
he reached out to me.
We did nothing much together
Until he was sick
when he cried for the first time
I knew he was human.
His last words to me: I love you.

I regret

-------------------

Alarm

Like a bitch who will not let me eat
The alarm awakens me
And rips my guts onto the floor
to dance in them.
"Soda?" she asks.
I fling a shoe at her
and she eats it.