As that Southwest Airlines commercial goes: It’s on.

With only 27 days until the 20th annual Goodboys Invitational, how can it not be?

Today was the official start of preparations for Goodboys weekend. At 11 AM, the thermometer reading 92 degrees on its way to 104, I took from my bag my 7 wood, my 9, 7, and 5 irons, and a hacked up putter, and tossed them into the trunk. I put on my sunglasses, popped The Sandals’ excellent “Spirit of Surf” CD into the player, and headed out to Superstition Springs Golf Club for the first of three driving range / putting green practice sessions to get myself and my golf game ready for the the mindblowing, bone-crunching pressure of a Goodboys Invitational weekend.

In year’s past, I’ve prepared for Goodboys weekend by playing a round or two at Superstition Springs and elsewhere. But I’ve learned that, because of the grasses used around here, you really can’t equate Arizona golf with New England golf. Far better, I think, to think “quality” rather than “quantity” and use this time for not only physical preparation, but mental preparation as well. So, rather than play rounds of gold in searing heat, I’ve decided to just hit a small amount of balls every weeks and then putt a little bit just to get some good golf thoughts in my head.

My last driving range session with my good friend and fellow Goodboy Ben “The Funny Guy” Andrusaitis paid a lot of dividends, even though it didn’t show up in my score when I played with “the Boys” last weekend. My history has always been to avoid the driving range, thinking, as John Daly has said, “you can get into a lot of bad habits there”. But, like light dawning over Marblehead, my last session with The Funny Guy put some swing thoughts into my head that have made me actually want to go to the driving range and work on my game rather than just mindlessly hit balls.

So today I paid my $6 for a driving range card of 60 balls, bought myself a new Titleist golf glove, then stopped the machine after only 30 balls. Why? First, because it was too freakin’ hot by the time I hit the range (98 degrees), and second, because this was a working session, not a ball-hitting session. I approached…

Am I boring everyone here? If so, not much I can do about it. After all, this is The Great White Shank’s blog, and I reserve full editorial privilege over it’s content. If you’re looking for Barack Obama bashing come back Monday or Tuesday; that’s what the military calls a target-rich environment.

Where was I? Oh, anyways, I approached today’s session with three swing thoughts in mind: 1) eye to contact (in other words, focusing less on where the ball goes and more on making good contact); 2) good weight shift (a big thing with The Funny Guy, getting my upper body through and ending up facing the target on my follow through); 3) “sweeeet” swing.

And that’s it. Like most high handicappers, I suppose, I have a tendency to overswing, and these swing thoughts will hopefully go a long way to reduce the amount of times I do that.

There’s an old golf adage that you “drive for show and putt for dough”, but for The Great White Shank, the tee game drives the rest of my game. I think - other Goodboys may disagree - I have a pretty darned good short game (at least for someone of my handicap), and if I can only control my overswinging off the tee I believe I can do some serious damage over a Goodboys weekend. I don’t really care if me and my partner Ron “Cubby” Myerow win this year; my goal is to break 100 for a Goodboys Invitational round - something I’ve come very close to but (I believe) never have done yet - and let the chips fall where they may.

Doing my 30 balls a week practice, I hope, is going to get me to that promised land in 2010. Who knows, maybe I’m just in denial. After all, after Goodboys weekend, there’s really not a lot to look forward to - a week traveling to India and then an operation to have my prostate removed - so to immerse myself in golf and try and employ (The Funny Guy won’t believe I’m saying this) a disciplined approach for the next few weeks will not only be a golf challenge, but a personal challenge as well.

One final note: you Goodboys out there better bring your “A” game with you because my partner and I are totally on the same page. Why, tonight I got an e-mail from Cubby stating he can get me a box of Wilson Smart Cores for $12 and a 20% discount.

Hard to believe that month from today the Goodboys Invitational weekend will be over. Until then, however, the game is afoot, and so is The Great White Shank.

—

Pool temp: 89 degrees

How about that 14th hole today at Pebble Beach? The only thing missing was the flying saucer or the windmill. It’s a hole Yang Yong-eun won’t forget anytime soon.

The heck with vacuuming up the oil being spilled into the Gulf of Mexico. It’s more important that there are enough life preservers on the barges.

It’s not just The Great White Shank that sees President Barack Obama as an incompetent and an amateur.

The Red Sox are now just one itty-bitty game out of first place in the A.L. East.

Now what will I eat?

On a Friday night at the end of a long hard work week this is all just so much madness. Who to blame? Me? I blame it on the Bossa Nova.

—

Pool temp: 90 degrees

To me, the Mississippi River rolls and surges through my soul no less than its does this country’s soul. I’ve made sure Tracey knows that when I’m gone I expect 1/2 of my ashes to be dumped into “Big Muddy” at Gramercy, Louisiana - an unassuming river town in St. James Parish, west of New Orleans just over the next big Mississippi River bridge. It was there, maybe 10 or so years back, that Tracey and I shared a smooch and a cocktail together on a sandy bank just over the levee; on a bright spring afternoon it was just us and a few lonely trees and some driftwood and the occasional beer bottle keeping us company as a larger container ship urged its way upriver just yards away without making so much as a peep. The river that afternoon was both magical, majestic, and haunting in its hard-working beauty.

Whenever I lay in bed at night with thoughts of work or other stuff troubling my mind, that afternoon in Gramercy, with its levee and the set of small frame houses and obligatory set of railroad tracks adjoining it, will always put my mind at ease.

I think of the Mississippi River as a part of my soul, an itch that will never be satisfied by any amount of scratching. G. Paul Kemp, a former professor of Marine Science at Louisiana State University and current vice president of the National Audubon Society’s Louisiana Coastal Initiative, calls it the biggest tool in the toolbox when it comes to keeping the oil being spilled out of that BP well into the Gulf of Mexico out of Louisiana’s fragile swamps and marshland. It wouldn’t surprise me - there are few, if any, systems in the world as adept at moving huge volumes of water like the Mississippi does. It’s done a lot of damage to people over the years, it would be ironic if it helps save some peoples’ livelihoods if put to good use. I’d give it a try…

Here are a couple of tunes that make my heart long for being back on that levee in Gramercy, away from the cares of my world. First, we’ve got Ray “The Genius” Charles - one of my all-time faves - and his incomparable version of “Old Man River” (scroll down and click on the piano).

Next, we’ve got this odd YouTube video of the Beach Boys doing Brian Wilson’s fine arrangement of Old Folks At Home and Old Man River. Pure Americana (the music, I mean, not the the video, which must be the India version of someone’s own Mississippi, which is OK).

Gotta find a way to make another date with Gramercy and the Mississippi one of these days…

—

Pool temp: 89 degrees

Jimmy, Carter, that is.

Look, I’m not sayin’ that The Great White Shank told ya so, but…The Great White Shank told you so, and long ago. See? I’m a poet and don’t even know it.

Of course, no one listens to The Great White Shank.

Back then, when practically everyone except obvious racists like me thought Barack Obama walked on water and the savior of a world destroyed and reduced to smoldering rubble by the likes of George W. Bush (after all, that’s what those like me were called by Democrats, liberals, and the mainstream dino-media), I tried my best to warn y’all that this guy didn’t have the life experience or smarts to run a lemonade stand even if he held a Lemonade Stand for Dummies book in hand.

Of course, now, with the gazillion gobs of oil still spewing into the Gulf of Mexico nearly two months later and serious help to contain, reduce, and dissipate the slick slowed by government red tape, not even the Obama a$$-kissing, Tea Party-haters at MSNBC, the no-longer-so-perky-about-Obama Katie Couric, and Maureen Dowd can defend The One’s pathetic excuse for a speech to a head-scratching nation last night.

Good to hear that he’s taking such withering criticism to heart - why, he devoted a whole 20 minutes (gasp!) of his day to meeting with BP’s CEO, who then expressed his own concern for “the small people” out there. Honest to God, you couldn’t make this stuff up. What a bunch of freakin’ incompetent schmucks.

Is there still anyone out there who doesn’t now believe that President Obama is in over his head? And it’s not just about the situation in the Gulf: don’t think other world leaders - including those whose intentions re: the U.S. and its interests aren’t quite so friendly - aren’t paying attention. I’m just wondering now which is the bigger disaster, the Gulf oil spill or the Obama presidency?

Barack Obama was, is, and always will be, someone who, out here in Arizona (you know, that place where we send illegal immigrants to the gas chamber if our stormtroopers catch them without papers) “all hat, no cattle”. I’ve said before, compared to Barack Obama Bill Clinton is Abraham Lincoln. Hell, he’s making me long for Jimmy Carter. Or, at least, recall Jimmy Carter.

Actually, I think I’d take Carter right now for president. He may not have been very effective, but at least he had morals, was American-born, and at least acted like an adult who had a clue. This president is not just clueless, he is an embarrassment. At least others of his own political ilk are starting to see it for themselves.

You want to see what a true leader, and not some phony baloney who’s been told for years he’s something that he’s really not, sounds like? Click here.

—

Pool temp: 88 degrees

I’m reading Bryan Burrough’s excellent Public Enemies, recounting the beginnings of the FBI and the manhunts for Bonnie and Clyde, Pretty Boy Floyd, John Dillinger, Baby Face Nelson, and Ma Barker and the Barker-Karpis Gang. It’s a real page turner, one that dispels many common myths and misconceptions about the FBI’s rise to power and the gangsters that made it possible back in 1933-34.

Once again, travel through the Atlanta airport lived up to my every expectation. Yes, there were thunderstorms in the area. Yes, my flight to Phoenix was delayed - delayed in boarding, delayed in taking off, delayed in arriving into Phoenix. At some point you just have to shake your head and laugh about it. I wonder how the frequenst fliers deal with it…

It was an extremely bumpy ride passing through thunderstorms to Atlanta’s north and west. Even though the seatbelt light was on and there were repeated warnings given by the flight attendents and the captain telling people to remain seated, there was a steady stream of passengers risking their necks (literally!) getting up to use the lavatories. I know when you gotta go, you gotta go; but when your laptop is bouncing around on your tray table (like mine is presently), to be up and around is not just stupid, it’s truly dangerous to you and to others. I guarantee that if any of these idiots suffered any injury as a result they wouldn’t hesitate to sue the airlines and blame them for their own stupidity.

Hmmm…the next time I’ll be flying, in less than four weeks’ time, it’ll be to travel back east for a long-deserved week of vacation and the Goodboys Invitational. Much to do before that time, specifically: a) hit a small bucket of balls every week to begin fine-tuning my game, b) get whatever accessories needed in order to have my portable MP3 player with the surf tunes on it with me while I’m in the air and in my rental car, 3) pick up that new book on Tiger Woods, and 4) remember to pick up the latest Golf Magazine and Golf Digest for light reading on my flights back east.

Oh sure, after a week immersed in golf and three days of competitive golf with the Goodboys I’ll be ready for a well-deserved vacation from the game, but that’s just the way it is and always has been with the Goodboys: always great to look forward to, always good to put in your rear-view mirror for another year.

In New England this is a lovely time of year: the days still anticipate the heat and humidity of July and August, and everything is green and full of life. At my parents’ apartment complex, the tree I sat under last Halloween night, all golden yellow and rustling in a warm haunting wind, stands full and proud, its life branches hidden by dark green foliage. Whereas in Arizona the searing heat has brought shimmering skies of azure blue, up here in the northern latitudes, the blue of the sky is gentler and full of cottony clouds. Summertime is here, but the temperatures could be a little warmer.

Nevertheless, June is a fine month, and tonight a perfect opportunity for this lovely poem by Hal Caulfield I found at PoemHunter.com:

June is the sweetest month.
Of the calm and tempest tossed twelve,
June is the fairest of them all.
No rough winds shake the darling buds of May.
And contrary to the Bard’s refrain
Heaven’s eye never shines too hot.
For June is more lovely and more temperate.

I sigh at the thought of her with me.
Here, me basking in her light.
Rays of shine and warmth surround me.
Each gentle breeze a word, a pearl for my delight,
Each smile a sun encrusted day for my affection.
But there are only 30 days in June,
And she is not mine
For even that short length of time.
So, June in not a month.
She is but a happy hope.
A dream that some day
I will bask in the eternal
Sweetness of her smile.

Tomorrow it’s back to Arizona and the heat. But this sweet June interval has been a joy. Four weeks from now (God willing), I’ll be back for a long-anticipated week of vacation and the 20th annual Goodboys Invitational. By then the trees will have started to take on that heavy look and the meadow grasses will have started to turn a little yellow from the dryness and the heat. It will be mid-summer then, and, in Arizona, the start of the monsoon.

Next week will be the longest day of the year. Where has this year gone?

Sure, we often take on weighty topics here at Goodboys Nation weblog, but this isn’t one of them.

If there is one comfort food for The Great White Shank, it has to be the veal cutlet. Sure, there are lots of ways to prepare veal, but breaded and fried, then topped with a marinara sauce is the key to gastronomic happiness as far as I’m concerned. You see, veal cutlets have a special place in my heart, for, besides tasting good, they also hold fond memories of family dinners many years ago - memories of sights and smells I feel privileged to have experienced.

Whenever we saw veal cutlets in the refigerator, all fresh and pink with the promise of breading and frying, that meant not only a great meal somewhere in the near future, but one that featured by my uncle and godfather, Milt. For Milt coming for dinner and veal cutlets were always inextricably linked. I can still remember us all gathered around the expanded supper table with the added leaf: my mom and dad, me and my two brothers, my grandfather, and Milt. In the middle, a large platter of veal cutlets all fried and brown and dark and crispy around the edges, a large bowl of french fries, and a bowl of Kraft Spaghetti Dinner tomato sauce to slather on top.

Was it the most healthy of meals? Hardly. But these were special occasions to look forward to and cherish. In time, my grandfather, and then Milt, passed away. The house got sold, and we all went off in our different lives and ways. But the memories of those dinners have stayed with me over the years, and are something I recall whenever I come back home to New England and order up for myself a veal cutlet sub sandwich from any one of several pizza/sub joints there are around the area.

I don’t think you’ll find veal cutlet subs outside of New England. They weren’t in Louisville when we lived there, and they sure aren’t around Phoenix, but then again, neither is your New England-style sub shop either. That kind of place remains unique to New England, and something to look forward to whenever I’m planning a return visit home.

Sure, some people might have a problem with the very idea of where veal originates from - you can’t separate meat from the provider of it - but if prepared well and graced with an appreciation of God’s creation, I don’t have a problem with it. I still remember one time when I was doing a retreat at Holy Cross Monastery a number of years ago, and being fed a wonderful veal and peppers lunch with pasta. Just prior to saying grace, one of the monks was heard to say, “great, now we’re celebrating the torture of cattle”, but it was absolutely delicious.

Pagliuca’s in Boston’s North End serves a wonderful veal scallopine, very tender, you can tell they pound their own veal.

I’ve also had German-style veal cutlets with brown gravy years ago at the Green Barn Restaurant in Salem, NH. With a nicely-chilled Riesling, that’s a pretty enjoable dining experience as well.

Every now and then, I’ll find some scallopine at the local Fry’s and bread it up and fry it with some Barilla Thin Spaghetti, then serve it under some Kraft Spaghetti Dinner sauce for old time’s sake. Not often, but often enough so that it’s a special occasion. And when I do, I always make it a point after saying grace to remember my family and raise a glass of Bolla Chianti in a fond toast to my godfather Milt.

If it’s true that the dinner table is the vehicle by which families and friends are drawn together over time and in space, then the veal cutlet, at least for The Great White Shank, will always have a special place in my thoughts and memories.

Got this in an e-mail my folks got today. Pretty funny…there’s more than a shred of truth in it. Enjoy!

Governor of California is jogging with his dog along a nature trail. A coyote jumps out and attacks the Governor’s dog.

California:

#1. Governor starts to intervene, reflects upon the movie “Bambi” and then realizes he should stop; the coyote is only doing what is natural.

#2. He calls animal control. Animal control captures coyote and spends $200 testing it for diseases and $500 upon relocating it.

#3. He calls veterinarian. Vet collects dead dog and spends $200 testing it for diseases.

#4. Governor goes to hospital and spends $3,500 getting checked for diseases from the coyote and on getting bite wound bandaged.

#5. Running trail gets shut down for 6 months while wildlife services conducts a $100,000 survey to make sure the area is clear of dangerous animals.

#6. Governor spends $50,000 of state funds implementing a “coyote awareness” program for residents of the area.

#7. State legislature spends $2 million investigating how to better handle rabies and how to possibly eradicate the disease.

#8. Governor’s security agent is fired for not stopping the attack and for letting the Governor intervene. Cost: $75,000 to train new security agent.

#9. PETA protests the coyote relocation and files suit against the state.

Texas:

#1. Governor shoots coyote and keeps jogging. Governor has spent $0.50 on a .45 ACP hollow point cartridge. Buzzards eat dead coyote.

Any wonder why California is broke????

Pool temp: 88 degrees

OK, I’ll admit it, and I’m not ashamed to do so: I am no fan of Atlanta. Sure, my company headquarters are located here, my brother Dave lives here, but if neither were the case you’d never see me here. Ever.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not talking about the people of Atlanta, y’all. They seem nice enough. But it’s the city in general I’m talking about that seems to be missing something. Is it a soul? An identity? It’s not the traffic, I’ll tell you, there’s plenty of that!! But think about it: say Atlanta and what comes to mind? Besides being a big city and the capitol of Georgia. And William Tecumseh Sherman.

For one thing, it’s not really the South (or at least, my idea of the South like the Deep South). Well, yes, it is the South, but to me Georgia + South = Savannah, not Atlanta.

I’m just trying to figure out what the identity of this city really is. I mean, maybe it’s just that I haven’t spent enough time exploring the area. I mean, I fly into the airport, take the North Springs MARTA train to the Dunwoody section of town (the one good thing I’ll compliment Atlanta on in this post - it’s very efficient and the $4.50 round trip sure beats having to take a cab or van service), work a few days, then head back to the train and then to the airport where I find my flight back to Phoenix is delayed. Because every flight out of Atlanta is delayed. Except for those times when thunderstorms are in the area, like every afternoon between April and November 30, when every flight is either cancelled or delayed. Or when ice storms hit in December through February, when every flight is first cancelled, then delayed.

And why is that? Is there that many people who come to Atlanta to see and experience Atlanta? If so, I just don’t get it. To me, it’s more like the Northeast except for the longer summers and shorter winters.

Sports teams? Yeah, Atlanta has the Braves, the Hawks and the Falcons, but does anyone really care about them?

Food? What’s the big attraction in Atlanta? Nothing, it’s just home to every restaurant chain in existence.

What is Atlanta known for? Urban sprawl and traffic. Lots and lots and lots and lots of traffic. To me, the only thing that comes close to Atlanta in terms of sprawl and traffic is Southern California, another of my least favorite places. Here in Atlanta the traffic congestion is everywhere. It’s bizarre: I see the traffic copters hovering about, but what are they going to say? It’s a freakin’ mess down there! And it always is, Monday-Friday every week, every year. Oh, except the holiday season, where instead of just horrendous the traffic congestion turns to beyond horrendous.

Yep. I guess I’m ready to leave. I just wonder how long my flight tomorrow afternoon will be delayed.

—

Pool temp: 91 degrees

Got this e-mail the other day from my friend Tom. I think it illustrates pretty well everything going down (literally!) these days. Enjoy!

Heidi is the proprietor of a bar in Detroit . She realizes that virtually all of her customers are unemployed alcoholics and, as such, can no longer afford to patronize her bar. To solve this problem, she comes up with a new marketing plan that allows her customers to drink now, but pay later.

Heidi keeps track of the drinks consumed on a ledger (thereby granting the customers’ loans). Word gets around about Heidi’s “drink now, pay later” marketing strategy and, as a result, increasing numbers of customers flood into Heidi’s bar. Soon she has the largest sales volume for any bar in Detroit.

By providing her customers freedom from immediate payment demands, Heidi gets no resistance when, at regular intervals, she substantially increases her prices for wine and beer, the most consumed beverages Consequently, Heidi’s gross sales volume increases massively.

A young and dynamic vice-president at the local bank recognizes that these customer debts constitute valuable future assets and increases Heidi’s borrowing limit. He sees no reason for any undue concern, since he has the debts of the unemployed alcoholics as collateral.

At the bank’s corporate headquarters, expert traders figure a way to make huge commissions, and transform these customer loans into DRINKBONDS, ALKIBONDS and PUKEBONDS. These securities are then bundled and traded on international security markets.

Naive investors don’t really understand that the securities being sold to them as AAA secured bonds are really the debts of unemployed alcoholics. Nevertheless, the bond prices continuously climb, and the securities soon become the hottest-selling items for some of the nation’s leading brokerage houses.

One day, even though the bond prices are still climbing, a risk manager at the original local bank decides that the time has come to demand payment on the debts incurred by the drinkers at Heidi’s bar. He so informs Heidi.

Heidi then demands payment from her alcoholic patrons, but being unemployed alcoholics they cannot pay back their drinking debts. Since Heidi cannot fulfill her loan obligations she is forced into bankruptcy. The bar closes and the eleven employees lose their jobs.

Overnight, DRINKBONDS, ALKIBONDS and PUKEBONDS drop in price by 90%. The collapsed bond asset value destroys the banks liquidity and prevents it from issuing new loans, thus freezing credit and economic activity in the community. The suppliers of Heidi’s bar had granted her generous payment extensions and had invested their firms’ pension funds in the various BOND securities. They find they are now faced with having to write off her bad debt and with losing over 90% of the presumed value of the bonds. Her wine supplier also claims bankruptcy, closing the doors on a family business that had endured for three generations, her beer supplier is taken over by a competitor, who immediately closes the local plant and lays off 150 workers.

Fortunately though, the bank, the brokerage houses and their respective executives are saved and bailed out by a multi-billion dollar no-strings attached cash infusion from their cronies in Government.. The funds required for this bailout are obtained by new taxes levied on employed, middle-class, non-drinkers who have never been in Heidi’s bar.

Now do you understand?

Sounds perfectly logical to me…

—

Pool temp: 90 degrees!