Truism

5150 Golf

The Health and Safety Code offers an option to cops and docs, when they come across a mentally challenged individual or if they even suspect it, to “5150” them, which means to place them on a 24-hour hold for a psych evaluation. There are three different evaluations, and the person must meet at least one of the conditions:

1.  Pose a danger to one’s self

2.  Pose a danger to others

3.  Be gravely disabled

When after nine holes Riva’s score was 51 and mine 50, we both had a good laugh at the connotation.

I realized after a moment, it wasn’t funny: my game is a danger to me, and to others, and it is past gravely disabled! Riva notices the frown and shrugs; we’re playing for a beer and the game is very close. Of course, he’s playing for a real beer and I’m playing for the faux beer: O’Doul’s. 
We’re standing on the corner in Winslow Arizona … Okay, stop there, Raggio—refocus. We’re standing on the 15^th tee when we see the gal chasing a ground squirrel. I whistle; she stops in her tracks and comes trotting over. She's less antsy than the last time we saw her. All I have is half of a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich. I take my last small bite as she rolls her eyes. I toss a piece and she gratefully downs it, another and she’s scraping her front paws in anticipation. I toss the last piece and wave her off; she’s “trained” enough to know when it’s time to let me return to my misery. Halfway down the fairway, I look back and from all angles coyotes are closing in on her: her no-longer-pup pups … They knock her over and she jumps up to attack. They become submissive, only to “attack” again. She’s rolling over, they’re jumping and rolling over—for no reason at all, or maybe for all the reasons there are …

(Riva bought the “beer” but only by a stroke. We never waited; the joint was empty and about 68 degrees. It was, as Riva put it, “A perfect day to spoil it.”)

12/7/17 Swings and Things

The gal...

...is back. After 3 weeks she finally showed up on #12. She was much much more cautious, didn't get anywhere near as close as we're accustomed to her coming- her coat was full and she appeared healthy.  Two fig newtons and a half of a bologna/mayo on white and she was off!  

For cause?

The only thing that truly frightens me is irony.

g

Von’s (Safeway)

Von’s in December: I can hear the echo of coughing three aisles away, someone’s nose blowing—so much sneezing it sounds like a trap-shooting contest. People holding Kleenex up to their noses … I see my reflection in the freezer door: I’m Tony Randall. 

Only happens in Von’s—in Raley’s, I’m once again Clark Gable.

Baby, It’s Cold Outside—on the “Hit” List! WTF!

(What follows is mostly true.)

I’m sitting in the waiting room to get my blood drawn for my physical. My blood pressure was completely normal when I left the doctor’s exam room and she had commented on my fitness and weight gain and attitude. I’m thrilled—that is, until I overhear the two women next to me talking about the latest social no-no, faux pas, or where the line was crossed on the PC scale once again: the song (one of my favorites) “Baby, It’s Cold Outside.” I can feel pressure building in my jaw, neck, and gums. What in the hell is wrong with the words or intent of the man’s side of this song, and where exactly is the insensitivity? She can get up and fucking leave anytime; she even says, “Well, maybe one more …”  How do we know he didn’t save her from pneumonia?!

That song was written in 1944! The two women look at me; I’m flinching like I’m getting stung by a herd of wasps, and my squinting eyes challenge their raised eyebrows. I say, “No! You’re telling generations, literally generations, that they’ve been insensitive, overdosed on social novocain! What’s next? You keep telling people what they’ve done wrong over the decades or centuries and they just might rebel: the fucking cake is already baked—you can’t go back and tell them this was the way it was supposed to cook! You’re gonna get a lotta people mad and they might just elect a moron as the president of these un-United States!”

(Couple people nodding, and I’m feeling inspired, emboldened.) 

“And another thing!” (I’m getting into my own rant.) “You want to talk sensitivity? What about those homeless pigeons that can’t land on all these statues?” (I see eyebrows raise, but I plod on.) “Besides, nothing could be more ironic and telling than 100 years of pigeon shit! I mean you gotta know that these homeless birds are going to start looking for moving targets now! I want to start a movement called Pennies for Pigeons!”

We have a colorful past; it’s the good, the bad, and the ugly. Nothing you intend to “heal” today is going to change yesterday’s fetid aromas. Tear down tenants and portals to the past and you miss a chance to shake your head and point a child towards an explanation and a lesson about what was.  

(Back to the two ladies.) “Look, I admit, the guy was probably trying to get lucky.”  

Two blushes on old faces, but a trim smile now on both. “AHA! I caught you! SHAME!”

“You like Dino?” 

“Raggio? Mr. Raggio?”  I raise my hand to the nurse and rise, singing a chorus of of Baby, It’s Cold Outside!