The Sweet Taste of Victory

The day had started out badly and was ending even worse. As I dejectedly chased after another skulled trap shot, I was embarrassed. The groom-to-be and the other golfers in our pre-wedding tournament stood around the 18th green. My futility was exposed for all in this small world to see clearly. Another 7 was added to my score. "86" I whispered when my host, the groom's father, asked for the total damage.

"We have a tie for first place". Luckily, I had managed to find a group of golfers whose level of incompetence was greater than mine. Out of 15 who hacked and chopped their hour upon the stage, only one other had scored equally as well, or more accurately, equally less badly.

"We will have a putt off to decide the champion". It had been announced at the beginning of this first, and hopefully last championship in honor of the pending nuptials of my friend's son, that a trophy would be awarded to the winner. Before the round, I had taken a glance at the statue of a gold-brown golfer in mid-swing and wondered aloud if it was at least edible.

This was one of those days where even the broad side of the barn was too small a target for me to hit with a putt. Speed and accuracy both proved elusive goals. We were about to enter a gunfight in which I had no bullets. My opponent was 30 years my junior and did not possess the natural twitch while putting that seems an integral part of the game for most my age.

From about 15 feet, the great sudden-death shootout of 2011 began. Age, going before beauty, I stepped up and proceeded, to my great surprise, to hit a putt that was at least in the right general direction. But the winner was not chosen on that basis, and as the ball came to rest, the hole remained unscathed. My young opponent fared no better, and it was decreed that 15 feet would now become 8 or 9. Everyone had to get to the pre-wedding dinner party, and this already had the feel of a fun idea turned stupidly wrong.

The order was switched for the second attempt, and I soon discovered that there were 2 of us who could putt badly. Thus, given a second shot at glory, I stepped up and ....

"Let me take a picture". As I held the trophy aloft, my host took a picture of an old man, with the wide grin, his hat on backwards, looking as if he had just captured one of the four majors. For one day, in this small and very ugly universe, there had been no one better. As I lay my clubs down in the trunk of the car and gently placed my proof of excellence next to them, the crowd disbursed, their thoughts already having moved beyond the course.

So tomorrow, when I am once more hacking and chopping, shaking my head and wondering why am I doing this to myself again, I will have the memory of the great and stirring victory dancing in my head. Winning, especially clutching my symbol of excellence tasted sweet, even though I discovered to my disappointment, my new friend with the golden- brown facade was not made of chocolate.

Separate Tables Please

("Should Justices Keep Their Opinion to Themselves")

I see them sitting, day after day and year after year, at a separate table in the restaurant, congregating always amongst themselves. If even my local trial court judges must avoid the hint of impropriety, shouldn't this rule have even stronger application for those who each day shape the future of our country?

There is an arrogance in their attitude as they free- wheel past the constraints of precedence in their opinions and the dictates of separation of the powerful from the rest of us in their not so personal life. The justices on the right in this Supreme Court are wrong in so many ways, not the least of which is their failure to refrain from giving not very subtle hints as to their private positions in public, highly charged forums. They seem equally immune from the rule of law and the rules of common sense. Yes, these justices should keep their associations far away from political gatherings, and no, these justices most assuredly won't do that.

I am Spam

Not that I'm getting paranoid, but I am convinced that the internet has marked my writing as spam. I mean I can understand if readers might find me annoying, self-absorbed, ill-informed, long-winded, repetitive, uninspired (I've got to stop now as I am pissing myself off). But, really, some people like me, not in the way that Sally Fields thought that people liked her, but a little bit.

So, why am I getting so many notifications from my once and former faithful followers that they are no longer getting notice of my new postings? It can only be the great conspiracy to keep me from my miniscule audience. This was not some random malfunction but a determined act of the giant beast to eradicate my existence (in an "existential" kind of way). I mean there must be almost as many bloggers as there are computers. Could I really be so bad that the god of who is (in a "metaphorical" kind of way)decided that I alone among all the dreck and idiocy was not worthy?

Has it been decided that I am not funny enough? I know that I am not Larry David, or even Larry David's old shoes, but that doesn't mean I can't take a stab at humor, at least once in a while.But, if you have made a fixed determination that my only possible redemption is to quit trying to be clever and cute, well then I will take that as my cue.

Could my political positions be pedantic? I comprehend that there is little but facade in these short but vapid statements in which I criticize and critique. If I have offended a Republican god of internet with my observations, I give my sincerest apologies. If you demand that my ramblings on everything related to a world in which I know nothing but profess to be an expert must disappear, they are gone.

Even I find my attempts at poetry pathetic. And my ridiculous stabs at country music stardom, what is that all about? I mean not only can't I carry a tune, I most assuredly can't write one. What do I know about trucks and bars? If I was intended to write these lyrics I would have been born without a New Jersey accent. I get it, no more corny attempts to be what I am not.

But how about sports? Won't you at least leave me with the one thing that I am truly fit to wax on (and on) about? I mean I am a failed and failing athlete and everyone likes to read about yet another mindless jock contemplating a world he wishes he could inhabit. I still see myself at almost 60 turning a double play for the Yankees. I just have to tell the runner coming into second to be careful because my back is not so good these days. I know I can be more focused and less whiny when I muse about my personal and perpetual shortcomings on my chosen field of play. Yet, if you are telling me that enough is too much, then so be it. Goodbye, true love, I will miss you dearly.

So, what is left for me to compose rhapsodic on? My family, of course and my own personal life skill deficiencies. My mom, and my dad. You can't seriously want to take them away. I mean I just about invented the over-dramatic and I am the quintessential sappy. I write of my folks like a really bad version of Erich Segal's "Love Story". I am the first draft of something that never should have happened, I get it. But can you really be telling me that this is not worthy of at least the light of day? Can my mom and dad not pull at your heartstrings enough to be maintained on your pages? Even them?

And then it all gets down to just me and my poor wife, and children, as it always does. I started out thinking I could do a David Sedaris on myself. I mean I have so many shortcomings that I could overload your system discussing them ad nauseum ( I am aware that the literal translation is "to the point of nausea"). I do understand that there are limits of self-contemplation that can't be crossed and I may well have crossed them. But my tributes to my beleaguered spouse, and my 2 wonderful kids, those also have to stop? I mean you are really cruel, but if I must, well, you are the boss.

The only thing left is to talk about you. The great and wonderful Oz. The master of this universe with the power to give and to take away. You may be almost as critical to this world as Oprah. If I must limit my comments to praise of your all-mighty I will do as commanded. I will do whatever it takes to get my readership back. Please unspam me your holiness. From your humble servant.

Disappearing Act

AN EDITED VERSION OF THIS POST APPEARS IN THE NY TIMES ON JULY 10


("On NYTimes.com, Now You See It, Now You Don't")


What if "Dewey Beats Truman" never happened?

We are in an age of the instantaneous news cycle. Competing for readers on the web allows for less review and reflection. I well recall the .com headline of the death of Gabrielle Giffords. It emanated from a story circulated by NPR. A well respected news source was enough for the Times, and many others. Later, that story disappeared into the thin air of an online unnoted correction.

I do think it of import that the Times and others chronicle this turbulent moment in journalistic history. Not only should the mistakes and omissions be part of the public record because they are part of that record, but they should be there to demonstrate the trials and tribulations associated with the learning curve of getting information out to the public in the 21st century.

Treating a Disorder

("Why Is He Bi? (Sigh)")

The actions of President Obama as described by Ms. Dowd often lead to a most troubling "Bi" in his supporters: bipolar. In its grasp, this disorder involves abrupt mood swings in its sufferers between mania and depression.

We wait for the President to "come out of the closet" on issues like gay marriage. We watch his simultaneous comings and goings abroad. We live each day with his struggle to find any footing for the economy at home. We hear his words of great promise but often find results less so. And we are left to wonder when the waiting will end, and the President we envision but rarely see will emerge.

We want to blame everyone but him for these failings; an irrational and obstinate Republican party filled with Tea Party ideas; a weak kneed Democratic party short on message and moxie; a former President who left a mess from which even Houdini couldn't extricate himself.

In the final analysis though, the buck does stop at the White House and the President's unwillingness or inability to be a consistent champion of those ideas and causes he so eloquently professes to support, has left me, and many others, with all too temporary highs followed by periods of distressing lows. Bipolar disorder is a serious problem which if not treated properly can lead to a disastrous end; a Republican Congress and President in 2012.

Descriptive Words

AN EDITED VERSION OF THIS POST APPEARS IN THE NEW YORK TIMES ON JUNE 24, 2011

("0bama Will Speed Pullout From War In Afghanistan")

The writers' choice of descriptive words speaks volumes: "fragile" gains, "elusive" transfer of responsibility, "unprepared" Afghanistan troops,"rampant" corruption in Afghan government "sapping" confidence of locals, "disenchanted" in US over "ballooning" national debts, "whopping" price tag of Afghan conflict.

As the President wrestles over the "responsible" way to make an exit, the language of your article only reinforces the obvious: there is no gentle way to articulate the "mess" that remains.

100 Days

"100 Days" is 100 days off. There is not one moment in time when the political process functions properly to address the ills that have brought this nation to its knees. Those of us who supported Obama in 2008, waited for the policies he envisioned to become reality. But his biggest goal, the overriding reform of health care, took not 100 days but what seemed like a political lifetime to move forward. What was left at its passage, bore little resemblance to what we hoped for.

We have been defined by words like filibuster, which has derailed endless possibilities and by big money which has dictated policy positions benefiting the few at the expense of most of the nation. And yes, it does feel that one campaign begins the moment the last ends. There is no room left in this world to govern.

On so many levels, we are in need of massive reform in our approach. But I don't believe a Third Party candidate is the answer. Yes, it might enliven the debate and bring up ugly truths about the Democrats and the Republicans. But there is a systemic disease on so many levels that words alone will not cure.

What we require are big new ideas, like doing away with the need to obtain a super- majority, so that a party in power really has an opportunity to shape the nation according to its vision. What we require is a massive restructuring of the time and money allotted to campaigning, so that we don't govern exclusively to special interests, and so we actually spend time governing. Until we are a country that focuses on turning 100 days into 4 years, all the bright ideas that Mr. Friedman, or any third party candidate may espouse, are as but a moment in time wasted.

Getting the Dirt on Derek

("After 3000, Even Dirt Will Sell")

It stared at me mockingly. The green that was to have been preserved forever, much like the remains of Ted Williams, was a limp and very dead white. The Steiner people were contacted but the second piece of history proved no more durable than the first. The small clump of dirt and grass that was once part of the former Yankee Stadium seemed to be informing me more about my own mortality than about baseball immortality.

And now we await the marketing of everything Derek. If those in charge could, I am sure they would bottle the air he breathes. "Get your official DJ piece of oxygen". The muscle pull that sidelined the captain, but 6 hits short of the promised land, must have sent this entire cottage industry into massive depression.

But there will be unmistakable magic in the turf beneath his feet when 3000 is reached. You see, Derek and I go back over 15 years. We have a relationship to preserve. Thus, while my head will tell me "no", my heart will reach for my wallet. I know the old adage "fool me once shame on you, fool me twice...". Count me as a fool.

Long Live the King

In my lifetime, there has been Arnie, then Jack followed by a host of pretenders to the throne. And then there was Tiger. This one was for real, and he was going to be forever.

It seemed his reign would last as long as there were championships to be won. And then there was that Thanksgiving thing and all the ugliness in its aftermath. And the knee thing. And now we are ready to talk in the past tense. Forever, as it turned out, was not as long as we thought.

And so we place the crown on King Rory. Even as it begins, I can't help but think about where, and when it might end. Will life intercede in ways unknown to hasten the departure of the latest greatest? Will his monarchy last as long as his immediate predecessor? We know he has the skills but does he have the will and the luck?

In the background, and in the back of our minds, is the now deposed leader. Does Tiger contemplate a coup, and is he ready, or will he ever be, to fight to regain control? Long live Rory, the now and until at least the next major, future King.

This Non- Rural Life

This non-rural life (a response to the universe inhabited by the Rural Life):

It is the grating sound of the opening of the neighboring building's large metal garage door, badly in need of overhaul, that pierces the quiet of the night. It is 4AM, and my day has begun.

There are no stars in this sky. Not now or ever. I stare at the apartment building to my left. One or two places show signs of life : a light emanates from one room, then another, a television's images flicker and then disappear.

From my vantage point on the Jersey side of the Hudson River, just south of The Bridge, the travelers on the West Side highway speed by. It will be several hours before I can look into the skies to see the air traffic that is headed into LaGuardia. On the day Captain Sullenberger left that airport and headed into trouble and fame, I had just gone out. I wonder if I would have noticed the plane in its descent past my window had my schedule been different. Now, that would have been a story for me to retell until the end of time.

I hear the unmistakable cries of an ambulance. There are several local hospitals nearby. From the direction of the fading echoes of the siren I try to guess its destination.

I stare at NYTimes.com on my computer screen. It is Monday morning and the news has an unsettling sameness. We are still troubled by Afghanistan and Pakistan, divided on our vision of the way out of our economic morass, and problems seem to pile up on the desk of a beleaguered President.

The workday beckons. I will soon drive my car west for 12 minutes, without traffic, and park in the spot closest to the office building. Only then will I hear a sound jarringly out of place. The residence next door is still home to chickens and roosters and other animals, unknown in number and nature. The smells and noises that emanate remind me of nothing else in the universe I inhabit here.

I am startled out of my contemplations by the garage door. It is a constant annoyance and I question why it remains unfixed. I wonder how many others are awake and listening to it's fingernails on chalkboard tune this morning.