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 …