Jack on the tee!

 Okay, another "out of nowhere coffee rant”:

So for no reason at all, I suddenly recall meeting Jack LaLanne. I was at Black Lake Golf Course in the mid-’80s and I'm waiting for the first tee to clear (I'm on deck). I hear whispering and someone says, "That's Jack LaLanne!"

I'm curious, so I step through the small throng and see a guy on the tee using a driver that appears to be about two feet longer than it should be. He's wearing a t-shirt that is clearly nine sizes too small and pants so tight they reveal we have something in common—we both hang to the left (it's a guy thing). The lady I'm with is mesmerized and wants me to get his autograph. 

I turn to her and say, "The only reason I would approach that guy is if I needed to feel tall!" Of course he can do 4,000 pushups. He's got biceps like cantaloupes, and in pushup position he can't be more than two inches off the carpet! If he wasn't Jack LaLanne he'd be marching to "Whistle while you work"! 

I get a "Shhhhh… he can hear you," and I can't help but continue. Look, on the TV he must surround himself with midgets! You'd never know he can't reach the freezer! He must have been a fire hydrant in his past life!

Suddenly I get a, "Jeez, dude, what's your problem?" I turn around to the guy behind me and reply, "Hey, dude, this is the guy who makes me feel like shit because I can't do 300 one-finger pullups. Look at that, he can't even reach the pedals on the golf cart!" 

"He's a member here ..."

"Bet he only has to pay half the dues ’cause he's only ..."

"Stop it!" I recognize the voice and tell her I'm done, but I keep muttering. Wasn't a good round. I got to watch "Jack" on each tee doing handstands and one-arm pushups.

Of course, today he'd be declared "vertically challenged" and allowed to play Abe Lincoln on Netflix. 

I'm done. And yes, I feel better.

Your Humbugness!

(On my way out to drive to the course when "the voice" says...)

“You know, Larry has his lights up …”

There it was. The annual near-accusation of my Scroogeness! Larry has his lights up.

It’s not as though Larry spends hours and hours on a weekend strategically applying his Christmas lights along the ridges of his roof—“With artful intent and hazard risk, he doth dress his home to capture the spirit …”

NO!

His lights are already there. They’ve been there! They reside all year ’round tapping their little twinkle toes until he flips a switch! No fair! He flips a switch and he’s instantly “Mr. Yule”!

Now I get to a climb a ladder with a plastic smile and post-stroke vertigo that has never gone completely absent, so I can be free from hearing: “You know, Larry has his lights up.”

A true neighbor would wait and flip that switch on Christmas Eve. That way it would be too late for his neighbors to react. Nope.

Larry has his lights up.

I know, this happens every year and I should be prepared. How can this be a surprise every year?!

I’ll wave and give him a thumbs-up when I see him outside his lighted castle, raise my eyebrows, and nod in false approval. He’s too nice a man to hate, but sometimes I wish he were a baby harp seal and …

Next year I’ll preempt the “Larry has …” I’ll call him up and say, “Hey Bud, everything okay? I just put my lights up and don’t see yours. I know it’s August, but…”

Dry Joys and the Tarantula

 

Selections

Been a while between paragraphs.

It is a smoky Saturday morning, and my robe feels to ask for more use—who am I to ignore the request? Looking out over the meadow, there is little contention, save for the mock battles of blue jays and other feathered things—more a game of tag, methinks. In any case, they’re relentless and none seems to get hurt.

On the other hand, where roads collide and machines blare in the quiet, there is an uninterrupted and obvious anger, silent and not.

The signs neighbors used to post on their lawns are now dares and have become self-righteous declarations of degrees of patriotism. Most are just bait, I’m afraid, baited by a glass eye skillfully nurtured by the choice of a button on a remote. Neither choice’s side has patriotism in mind. It is about ratings and sponsors, fueled by whatever head-slapping lie or exaggeration can be offered to keep the “channel” connected.

There was a time when friends could disagree, when signs on a lawn weren’t even discussed as the coincidence of neighbors picking up the morning paper together never interrupted a morning smile or wave. And through the smoke of a BBQ, political protests usually lasted as long as it took to have a can or bottle opener tossed your way. Elections were not seen as a threat by any selection. And when existential fears were offered up by a side or sides, they somehow dissipated like the wrinkles below an iron, because we had memories of fairness and realities that always eventually pressed the button of conscience that never became too remote.

It is our life that is reality. Not a cause. Not a theory. Nothing threatens the very next moment; why should we believe some glass eye in our living room that tells us where our future seconds will land?

Now is the moment of happiness.

An unlikely happening ...

Par 4 tenth. Red tees. First drive yanked out of bounds. Second drive 10 inches from the hole ... Par!

 

Herd futility

Herd futility is interfering with my false sense of impending safety!

Angel Falls and a cold beer to wash away the covid!

I’m reminded of that Bruce Willis movie, “Die Hard,” where he’s crawling through the ventilator shaft and he repeats his wife’s invitation: “Come on out to the coast; we’ll have a few laughs.” It’s exactly what I thought of when Sally suggested we take the short trail to Angel Falls. “I saw on a hiking site that no one is going up to Angel Falls; we can do the short hike and see where all those people bought it.” In some odd way it appealed to me.

With the help of Google maps and a guy named “Dave,” we found the trailhead. The initial portion of the trail was absent of anyone. I was feeling particularly confident, although my right foot reminded me the whole time that it had been operated on last year, a message that only resonated louder as the trek continued.

So.

I hear voices ahead and wait to examine the expected partially obscured faces as they come down towards us. Nothing partial about these faces. Two orange-shirted mask-less Bass Lake employees make their way by us, chin nods seemingly without regard for the suggested social-distancing protocol. I glare at their backs as they pass and then at Sally, who shrugs and rolls her eyes.

A few other “no one is going to the falls” people show up, and all appear without masks, save one.  His eyes say it all: “You ain’t seen nothing yet, Lewis—or are you Clark?”

From then on, the parade of people who weren’t supposed to be there grows and grows. Every time one of them passes, I feel like I am in a seat at AT&T Park with everyone in my row walking by my seat at once, and I have to stand to let each go by. No one in masks and no one practicing social distancing. I did see one guy who I was sure had practiced it at least once—via a restraining order.

A group of bathing-suited young women passes by, giggling and appearing quite oblivious (intentionally so?) to current events. I’m losing it now. Where the fuck am I? Why the fuck am I? I look down at the moving creek and suddenly I’m Gregory Peck fishing with Ava Gardner (dream on, Raj) in “On the Beach,” surrounded by tons of Australians singing “Waltzing Matilda.” Suddenly Sally taps me on the shoulder and asks, “Ava who?” I know, if you haven’t seen the movie, you can’t appreciate the complete depression it rallies.

Back at the car I see what appears to be a ticket on my windshield. A close examination reveals I’ve been charged $10 for parking in a lot that has no such demand for a fee written anywhere! WTF? Sally says, “There’s a Ranger over there walking; I think he’s placing them on cars.”

I drive over, and behind him on a billboard in large print I see: TEN-DOLLAR USE FEE. Hey, I parked an eighth of a mile away. It didn’t say anything about a fee! I mean, how about a discount for the distance I parked from this fucking sign! This guy could be “tagging” cars in North Fork and who would know what for?

I start to get out of the car and Sally says (in “the voice”), “SIT.” Okay, now I feel like I should be wearing a flea collar!

“But …”

Sally spins around and says, “It’s going to take you at least ten minutes to undistort your face. I’ll handle this!”

She gets out of the car, and the guy, who has a patch on the front of his polo shirt and a pad of these “tickets” in his hand, is stuffing $10 bills in a black fanny pack. Sally positions herself between us and won’t even let me do my best angry glare! I begin to raise my hand with its middle finger displayed and then I realize that I’d be paying for days for two seconds of satisfaction. I settle for gritted teeth, which grit tighter when Sally says, “Oh, don’t worry, we understand.” Who is the guy? He could be some con man who figured out the perfect con! Buy a shirt and logo and make $2,000 a week!

Now, did that antagonize me? Well, let’s just say I wanted to exit my Subaru and beat that man like a baby harp seal. Now the challenge is changing the face I own into that plastic smile I used when someone would call me a pig. She sees it immediately and says, “I just kept you out of prison—or I saved a baby harp seal.”

The drive home was a quiet one, with lots of nods from me until I felt I could talk. I finally said, “I’d like a very cold beer to wash down my Covid-19.” Yes, there was laughter.

The falls were gorgeous. Worth the trip? I’ll tell you in two weeks …

Eagle in the clouds...

When your game has gone to shit!

Friday I lost seven balls. Lost seven balls! You can’t hide the fact that you’ve lost a ball when you’re playing with witnesses! Just how embarrassing and frustrating is it when they have to disconnect from their game to assist you in finding your ball—or, in my case, yet another ball! I mean, you can only talk about how great the weather is on a few tees; after that, you get “the stare”—the one that says (silently), “Yeah, Raggio, we already agreed on that four tees ago, are you turning into the Rain Man?”  Don’t you just love standing over your ball, not having one clue which direction it will go, land, end up? It’s like that experimental recipe she’s been working on all day and wants you to taste—at least that’s 50/50!

My game has gone to shit.

I’m over the ball and I suddenly realize I’m looking down at a future orphan. I have about as much confidence in my backswing as I do with what comes after. I’m hearing the encouraging remarks and I figure half of them are for me and the other half are hoping they don’t have to play Lewis and Clark again. No confidence means no “real swing,” and thus the ball is acting like it’s part of a prison break. I cop a stare at the others as I pick up my tee. They’re both checking to see if their shoes are tied. Weak smiles follow. I want to grab Lyle by the throat and yell, “What kind of friend hits it down the fucking middle every time?!”

My game has gone to shit.

Doubts arise about my pre-retirement plan to “get good at the game” again. Maybe it was a mistake: tennis was an option, as were adult baseball, writing, hiking, and becoming a monk in Argentina! I can so see the ricochet to pickle ball, poker, and any participation without humiliation!

I have purchased cheap golf balls. Told them up front, “It’s every man for himself; I’m not even going to look for you guys—write your wills now.”

I’m over my orb on the second hole pretending I’m ignoring the water when I suddenly see my ball sinking in the water past a guy named Mike Nelson. Now I can’t get Sea Hunt out of my head. I step off the ball as if there was some purpose for it, I check the wind, waggle the club, and sink a new ball for some bass to harass. I could take the incredulous stance and stare, look back at the others as if with disbelief—but I couldn’t keep a straight face if I tried.

My game has gone to shit.

I could blame it on a myriad of maladies—hand, back, foot, age, lack of sleep, wheat toast—but it would be a disingenuous effort. “Raggio, you need some range time.” Range time is like taking a rubber mallet and whacking yourself in the head until you’ve forgotten why you’re doing it. And I hear, “You should go see Mike.” A lesson with Mike is two-hour aspirin for a four-hour headache; it works if you have the ability to retain the information. At my age, the only thing I'm retaining is reflux. Gee, I wonder why I’m not in skins!!! And I know a future team that would love to have Quasimodo as a teammate! I’d rather play in more scrambles, where at least I’d have three other chances to make the fairway!

My game has gone to shit …

Something wicked this way comes …

Hole Five (Par 5) before it was opened.

"It" will lie in wait. Ducks and geese will treat it like an ordinary pond. Perhaps it will be stocked with bass before it is involuntarily stocked with Titleists, Taylors, and the like.

If you’re fortunate enough to have a third shot that requires a generous loft, then the only fear will be the intimidation of the view before you. But, as FDR said—tsk tsk—“The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.” NO SHIT, FRANKLIN!

Try to ignore the tightening of the grip, the limited backswing and the left-to-right breeze; after all, it’s only 120 yards!

The other wicked adventure that might await is the poor drive or missed-hit second shot, which leave the player a 150- to 175-yard shot. Given the angle of the target, it might look very much like a giant discarded green thong with about as much depth! But fear not: There is, of course, the “layup.” Just thinking about it will begin to shrink your ’nads as those players around you look away and pretend they understand. Better to be a safe scorer than an embarrassed near-hero.

As if the visual was not enough, there is a sloping green for yet another opportunity to be menaced. Hitting the wrong side of the green will most certainly have its punishments. You’ll say, out loud, “I should have hit it over there.” Everyone will nod in agreement and think, “You’re fucking lucky to have hit the green at all, Raggio!”

Oh, one more thing, as if the list isn’t long enough: There are traps! And we all know how traps are. Sometimes they require a splash and sometimes an explosion. Can’t wait to see those thin shots and hear that wonderful ploosh sound as the ball clears the green and hits the water.  

“Hey, Coach, where do I hit from now?”

Food hoarder disorder

I don’t eat leftovers. My wife thinks she does, but in fact, she only collects leftovers. All leftovers. No portion is too small or insignificant not to be “Tuppered” (new word). I should have known, looking at her vast army of Tupperware early on, that there was an issue. I ignored the small voice in my head that whispered, “Danger Will Robinson, danger!”

Further warning came when, after one of our first dinners, I began to scrape the orts from my dish and she scolded me sharply. “Are you throwing that away?!”

I paused, looked down, looked up at her face, and finally said sarcastically, “I’m sorry, whatever was I thinking?” Imagine, I had already forced myself to eat two of the four Brussels sprouts on my plate. The idea of saving the last two little fuckers would never have crossed my mind. Vegetables are not my favorite food—so sue me.

I remember back then I thought the light had gone out in her fridge and then realized every shelf was packed with cartons, packages … and Tupperware. The light wasn’t out; the fridge was just so packed the light was useless! It was like looking into a miniature pre-dawn picture of Tokyo.

Saving a salad made a month earlier means to me there should be some couch-time consideration and maybe some good meds!  Nothing was dated (not that it would have made much of a difference to me). I don’t regard leftovers highly, but I was curious: What’s back there, back where the light illuminates itself? I looked both ways and began disassembling the tiny community before me. There was a light at the end of the shelf, and right next to it was a suspicious container with a slightly red tinge to the contents. I lifted the container and noted it seemed heavier than I thought it should be. The rubber top teased and dared my curiosity, and then it threatened my resolve about the whole matter. Suddenly I was Steve McQueen being chased through that supermarket by a massive mountain of breathing strawberry jelly anxious to consume me! Hey! Maybe that’s it! She’s afraid to open them! Yeah, that’s it!

That’s not it.

I quickly replaced and reassembled the condiment community, slammed the door, and found my back pressing against it. Part of me was actually waiting for some inner movement to indicate an effort to escape. 
So she’s hiding a food-hoarder disorder! Could be worse, right? Right??

Lyle's Day!

Lyle caught fish after fish after fish—more than a dozen that I counted. Bass, bluegill, shark, sturgeon, steelhead, perch, eel, and smelt—all visited his line (or so he said). Coach and I just nodded as he told his tale. We can vouch for the bass and the bluegill. The other "visitors" take some imagination.

It was wearying to watch his casts with his fly-fish pole and to hear him yell, "Fish on!" over and over. I half expected him to start breakdancing after each release. I was using pretty much the same lure, the losing lure after trying worms. I felt so foolish after Coach and I dug and dug yesterday, muddied up, to garner worms so small we weren't sure they could be baited on even the smallest hook.  

I was over there and then over there, moving in different spots, consistently unsuccessful. Coach had to share the ladies’-tee perch with Lyle, and we had to witness live the constant reeling-in of his catches. He would later admit he had wished social distancing were 50 yards, not 6! To his credit (and so, so Coach), Coach tried every bait and lure in his four tackle boxes. He even tried hooking a picture of a worm on a hook. He had salmon eggs, ham and eggs, and leftover Easter eggs. Tried ’em all. No shame showed on his face, and, as he cast each hope, he mimicked that thing Barry Bonds does at home plate after a home run: you know, when he gestures from his lips to the heavens. That didn't work either.

Okay, so Lyle left a bit taller today—his swagger, earned. The Hat ruled and I tip mine to him!

        Notice Lyle behind Coach giving advice and encouragement!

Here Lyle assures Coach he can't catch the virus from his shadow!

Here Coach is laughing and happy because the fish took his bait!  I had that same elation a few times. (How pathetic we were)

Here is The Fisherman looking across the pond at Riva stretched out on his lawn chair. 

The water hazard

                      When you realize you just don't have enough club ...

The Ace that never happened!

The morning tee was filled with talk about the direction of the infection, the detection.

No election, reflection, correction, nor recession conversation followed the first fairway. On hole number seven our attention was demanded as Dalhed’s wedge landed past the pin and gradually wandered back at the cup like a lost orphan. It bit and made its slow retreat back at the cup.

I crossed my orange-Cheetoed fingers as the ball continued to tease toward the hole. There’s always some clown who yells, “Go in the hole!” Today I was Bonzo. I yelled—the men on the 8th tee rushed to see the retreating ball. Back, back, back—it came to a stop an inch from the cup!

I instantly realized that Sam Dalhed had committed some ungodly act in a past life. I suddenly saw him as one of the Black Sox, the scout on the Donner Party, or Snidely Whiplash! Some kind of massive karma had risen up on the seventh green to yell, “Nyah, nyah, nyah!” No, that was actually me.

Remarkable shot, a superb shot!  (See the pics)

I was plagued all day with Fred’s putting, chipping, and driving.  Those silly shots he makes from off the green that go bip-bop-stop! Bip this, Yoda!

                                                         Sam's remarkable shot!

Whoa!

I guess the windshield really doesn't do much to prevent injury!

We saw this parked when we returned the cart.

Ode to three-putt days

(prompted by a day where we all suffered a familiar malady)




To be read or sung to "Yesterday"

Yesterday, all my three-putts seemed so far away,
Now it seems as though they’re here to stay,
Oh I despise these three-putt days!

Suddenly, even putts that seem so clear to me,
End up being that damn number three,
Oh, I can’t hide from 1-2-3.

Why do I putt for dough,
When I know I just can’t play?
I send the putt too long,
Know it’s wrong— they look away.

Yesterday, all my three-putts seemed so far away,
Now it seems as though they’re here to stay,
Oh, there’s no place to hide away.

Sam, Coach begin to crow,
Say they know, there’ll come a day,
I say it just seems wrong,
It’s too long, my feet are clay!

Yesterday, golf was such an easy game to play ...
Now I need some wings to fly away,
Just can’t stand one more three-putt day!