OK, so I’m back from Goodboys weekend. As usual, lots of laughs, a few dealings with dick-heads that I’d rather not (there are enough of those at work, thank you), but over and all it was OK – better than the last couple of years, for sure. Nothing’s changed my mind that next year will be my last as a Goodboy, but we’ll see. I plan a separate post on The Great White Shank’s golf performance, but bottom line is I think I could have played better. On the other hand, had I, I might have (with partner “Cubby” Myerow) ended up as Exec-Comm, and who the hell wants that??

Congratulations goes out to “The Funny Guy” Andrusaitis and “Skipper” Bornemann for their win at Goodboys 29. Wait till you see the pic I upload to commemorate their victory!

After Goodboys I spent two nights down in Newport, Rhode Island and experienced the same line of severe storms that turned into tornadoes on Cape Cod. On Monday I drove to beautiful Mystic, Connecticut, and after a slice of seriously overrated pepperoni pizza at Mystic Pizza (yes, that Mystic Pizza), enjoyed a lovely day on the waterfront before heading to the Margaritas restaurant there for, well, margaritas. I’ll always remember that afternoon, sitting at the bar, one TV tuned to New England Cable Network watching that ominous line of weather heading towards us, the other tuned to Weather Channel monitoring development of a tropical storm over the Bahamas. It was an exhilarating experience, feeling so far away from every kind of home I knew. I’ve never felt so much like I was on vacation.

…two hours later, at a bar in Newport, I watched the same front move ever closer to us from the west over Newport harbor. The lightning was gorgeous, lighting up the sky and the harbor with one strike after another. And when it hit, boy, did it ever! The hardest rain I think I’ve ever seen fall – they said 2 1/2 inches in 45 minutes. Under my barstool was eight inches of water, and I had a brief sense of what it must have been like on the Titanic (sans Celine Dion’s singing, thank goodness!). But it was a truly memorable and enjoyable day. It certainly made Goodboys weekend seem very far away, which is exactly what I needed at that time.

But enough about that.

A must-see video about the issue of homelessness. I’ve posted on this complex issue before, and, like Dr. Drew, the only way we’re gonna get out of this mess is strict enforcement of existing laws and tough love.

That’s not The Beach Boys on background (nor, for that matter, is it Duane Eddy twangin’ away on the guitar), but B.J. Thomas’ “Rock And Roll Lullaby” remains an emotional experience to listen to. How they got Mike Love and Brian Wilson sound-alikes is beyond me, but I can still remember a Sunday night way, waaaaay back in 1972 when the DJ told me it was The Beach Boys and I sure believed him. To this day, the beauty of the harmonies will bring tears to my eyes.

You might recall this post from back in April regarding plans we were putting in place for a backyard pool deck makeover. As I mentioned then, the original deck over the years had become faded and chipped, in some places down to the original concrete:

We contracted with a company called Allied Outdoor Solutions, who produce a product called Carvestone, a layered synthetic material that, once the original surface is prepared and roughed up, is applied, hand-textured, and colored to whatever design you are looking for.

When the sales guy came over and had us look at their samples, all we knew is that we didn’t want something traditional and boring with a lot of browns and grays like so many others have around their patios and pool decks around here. Tracey wanted colorful – and I mean really colorful, whereas I was willing to pretty much go along with any design as long as it wasn’t boring. As it turns out, regardless of what the Allied Solutions folks claim (and to Tracey’s chagrin) you really don’t have any truly bold colors to choose from – just a lot of muted pastels – but I think that’s just the nature of the product involved. Still it would have been nice had they been right up-front about it at the beginning.

After looking at sample materials, we decided to go with a yellow base with a combination of rust, blue, and gray in the mix. After we reviewed samples they made on a board (rejecting one for being too bland) pink grout was chosen to kind of draw in our existing Caribbean/Key West-inspired back patio. We didn’t really know what to expect, but I think it ended up coming out pretty well, dontcha think?

When I first had a look at it I was surprised to see just how mid-century modern / art deco it looked in a kind of Palm Springs-kinda way. Add an occasional splash of robin’s egg blue, and, why, one could almost imagine the likes of Bob Hope, Bing Crosby, and Frank Sinatra tossing back martinis and manhattans around the pool, circa 1958.

The next step is to replace the existing tiled patio with the same material and pattern. The deck itself needs a couple of weeks to “cure” before we add back the patio furniture, so it’s just as well that I’m heading back to Massachusetts for ten days. After that, we’ll be putting in a small wood-burning fire pit in preparation for the fall. And after that the backyard should be complete once and for all!

Target Handicap: 20.0to
Location: Superstition Springs Golf Club
Score: 45 + 54 = 99
MyScorecard.com Handicap: 25.7 / Change: (-0.9)

The par 5 #17 at Superstition Springs. It’s near 1 PM on a sweltering Saturday, the temperature is already 106, and there’s a giddyup of humidity starting to blow up the monsoon activity to our east and southeast. After yet another solid drive – my fourth fairway on “The Springs'” difficult back nine, I’ve muffed a planned low 5-iron pitch designed stay left of the pond right and stop just short of the pond left, allowing me, say, a 110-yard iron over the land bridge that separates both ponds. Instead, I flunked it off to the left up on the hill amidst a thin stand of pine trees. One of my playing partners has done the same thing, our balls lying just a yard away from each other.

“What are you planning on doing?”, asks Jose. He’s a cheery twenty-something with arms covered in tattoos. He’s learning the game and is the epitome of a grinder out there.

“Well, the smart play is to avoid these trees and pitch it down the hill to the 100-yard marker.”

“Dude, that may be smart but that’s pussy golf.”

“Where are you planning on going?”

“I’m going between the second and third tree and run it up that land bridge to the green.”

He chokes down on his 3-iron and takes a vicious slap at the ball. It nearly carries the land bridge but runs out of steam just before the end of the pond right, coming to rest about a foot from the farthest reach of the pond. He takes a short bow after a round of golf claps from our foursome.

“See? it’s easy.”

I choke down on my 5-iron. I’m not totally committed to the shot (shame on me!), it’s a different angle than the simpler out I had planned. (You see, I have a history with trees – if they’re out there, it’s a lock my ball is going to hit it.) I take a swing and it caroms off the third pine and bounces backwards to the middle of the fairway, 150 yards from the pin. I have the whole land bridge in front of me, so while it sucks that I’m now lying three and farther back then I was when I was lying two, I still have a legit shot at bogey. I take a good practice swing, but make that stupid dopey move on my downswing I’m trying to cure myself of and skull it into the pond. I drop another ball, but this time I’m seeing absolutely red and don’t think about aiming a little left and away from the pond left. I catch it cleanly, but it’s fading on me. It hits the mound left of the green and bounces into the pond. A chip and a two-putt later, I put a “X” on the card for a crowd-pleasing quad-bogey ten.

Jose? He chips on and two-putts for his bogey. With a wry smile he says, “Course management, bro.”

Hence the 54 on a back nine that I otherwise played as well as I ever have at the Springs. Listen, the back is tough: with the exception of the notorious par 4 #14 (which I happened this time to bogey with a solid drive and a equally-solid 4-hybrid, chip on and two-putt) the fairways are generous but the holes are all well-protected with bunkering (sand and grass) that requires you to be precise in your yardages. And since we were playing the 6700-yard Champions tees, there weren’t (at least for me) going to be a lot of GIR (green in regulation) opportunities. Still, I was lying at 38 coming to the #17 tee and had every reason to feel good about where I sat, even if my game wasn’t as sharp as it had been last weekend at Lone Tree.

It’s a lesson to be learned: if you have a plan, stick to it.

At any rate, #17 aside, it was another solid round, with another nine (in this case the front) in the mid-forties, and that without a real sharp game from 100 yards out. But the Springs will do that to you, forcing you to play defensive around its well-protected greens. My numbers were pretty good: while I had only three GIR opportunities (I can’t remember having to hit so many hybrids in my life, but that was good in a way – I needed the work!) and converted one. I played the four par 3s at two-over, something I’m quite proud of. The par 5s were a bit of a problem, but it wasn’t for the lack of my drives off the tee (I hit all four fairways) it was what happened after that that resulted in me playing them +12 after getting out of position with my send shot (5-woods all pushed a little left of where I wanted them to go). I had 30 putts on the atrociously-aerated greens, and, a couple of hiccups aside, my chipping game was good.

Without a doubt I’m trending in the right direction. I’ve worked really hard on my game this year and have gotten it into a place where, even if I’m not executing well I know exactly what it is I’m trying to do out there. I’m starting to accumulate nine-hole rounds in the mid-forties (my ultimate goal). For the second straight round, I hit my driver with renewed confidence: even on the notorious #14 my knees didn’t go to jello as they normally do. Instead, I made a good swing and feathered a soft fade to the center of a tight fairway. I’ll admit that my irons are still a work in progress, but I’m getting more comfortable with those as well.

I enter Goodboys Invitational week happy that I’m done with the Arizona heat (at least as far as golf goes), and I’m looking forward to a nice break after Goodboys Week is over. There’s lots to do to finish off the back yard and all kinds of housecleaning to do. But I’m ready for some New England golf and seeing how my game holds up under those conditions.

On this Fourth of July weekend, there remain some truths that are self-evident, like…

Anyone under the mistaken preconception that Joe Biden isn’t a moron needs only to look at this video. And folks, I’m not making this up. Say what you want about Donald Trump, but I’m guessing he knows who actually was President when the stock market crashed back in 1929, and knows damned well that television hadn’t even been invented yet. The fact that Biden is allowed to make statements like this so earnestly, and is then unchallenged by the media on it, shows either their complicity as Democratic operatives masquerading as journalists, or – just as likely – they’re just as stupidly and pathetically ignorant as he is.

…and get ready for more of this as we all get older, I’m afraid, because these are the kinds of folks running your public schools.

No, we didn’t feel the latest California earthquake, although there are news reports some folks here in the Valley saw their swimming pool waters suddenly start swashing around. California earthquakes make me think of that Warren Zevon song with it’s great line:

And if California falls into the ocean like the mystics and statistics say it will
I believe this hotel will be standing until I pay my bill.

They just don’t write lyrics like that anymore.

Speaking of music, and it being Fourth of July weekend, this somber, poignant Beach Boys tune lamenting the strife of the Vietnam War-era was in my mind as I watched all the vicious comments by Democrats and those on the liberal left towards President Trump’s “Salute to America” celebrating both our country and those who serve to protect our freedoms:

Born of the age
Flagged hopes
Censored rage
The black clad box
Bombs bursting in air
Bleed white red and blue
Cried dawn’s early light
For the hope

Oh where has it gone
Brothers sisters stand firmly and try
Reaching the spacious skies
Fourth of July

Lie by the sword
Black times
False reward
The greetings of doom
So proudly they hail
Lost fortune of free
The stripes and bright stars
Promise lost

Oh where has it gone
Brothers sisters stand firmly and try
Reaching the spacious skies
Fourth of July

Brothers sisters stand firmly and try
Reaching the spacious skies
Fourth of July

One would think we could have one day where everyone could just relax and agree that, while certainly not perfect, there’s no other place on this planet like the USA and the freedoms we both hold and cherish. Heck, you’d think even Democrats would agree and celebrate the fact that it’s those very freedoms and the promise of opportunity arising from those freedoms that is attracting so many of their oh-so-precious illegals trying to come here. But their – and the media’s – irrational, visceral hatred of Trump and this country burns so brightly they can’t even see just how out of touch they are with so many folks who happen to think this country is not just special but worth preserving.

After all, where else on earth could an ignorant moron like Colin Kaepernick succeed to a level where he could force a major footwear manufacturer to dump their Betsy Ross flag-themed sneakers?

But you gotta remember, you’re talking about a political party and a mainstream media that just had their worst week in 47 years. That’s an awful long time, but think about it: not only do they have a world-class moronic goofball at the top of the polls, this is what the Democratic agenda for 2020 looks like:

— Open borders and unrestricted illegal immigration
— Unrestricted abortion return to busing
— Tax hikes to roll back President Trump’s tax cuts
— Massive redistribution of wealth to combat climate change
— Medicare for All / Obamacare / Single-payor healthcare (including all illegal immigrants)
— Unfettered LGBTQ etc. etc. etc. activism

Is there anything out there who thinks this is a winning strategy against a Trump presidency and his booming economy?

Look, I know nearby Tempe is a college town with ASU and all that, but this kind of thing is outrageous and the shop owner and his/her employees need to find a new line of employment.

Target Handicap: 20.0
Location: Lone Tree Golf Club
Score: 50 + 43 = 93
MyScorecard.com Handicap: 26.6 / Change: (-0.8)

As soon as I realized I was going to be able to play golf on the 4th of July, I booked me a tee time at Lone Tree and made a trip to the Kokopelli G.C driving range to work on both my driver and hitting irons (7, 6, 5) off a tee. My inability to play par 3 holes was getting into my head, and I knew that the only way I was going to fix it was to work on staying on top of the ball with my new strong grip and really focusing on my transition and weight shift. The same thing with my driver. I just knew somehow that I was (even if only a little) sliding backwards and not shifting my weight forward to strike the ball cleanly and with the clubface square. Even though it was brutally hot out there, sometimes a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do, so I swilled two G2s (grape flavor) and fought the anemia that was making me feel a little light-headed. Half a large bucket with the irons, half hitting driver.

—

Warming up at Lone Tree the very next day – not more than 18 hours later – I’m hitting the ball all over the damned place. Oh, I’m staying on top of the ball all right, but the balls are flying every which way. And so it was as the round got underway, me playing alone between two foursomes, surf music on the iPhone. Even though I started bogey, double bogey, bogey, bogey I was doing it with mirrors. Somehow I’d make one great shot or sink a long putt, but I had no clue where the ball was going. On the par 5 #5, I actually put together my first really good shots of the day and was on the green in four, sixteen feet away, but four-putted for a triple bogey snowman. Then, on the next whole, a short 328-yard par 4, I hit my first straight drive of the day and something clicked. A 9-iron to ten feet and a two-putt for my first par of the day. A little bit of sloppy golf ensured on the next three holes (most especially on the par 5 #9, where a fairway-splitting longest drive of the day coupled with a perfectly-executed 3-hybrid left me only 122 yards to the pin), but a yanked 8-iron way right left me in Nowheresville and I had to settle for an unstaisfying double-bogey seven. Still, I knew I was starting to strike the ball rather crisply.

It was another sloppy hole on #10: instead of waiting for the foursome in front of me to clear the green, I attempted an “easy” 6-iron out of a fairway bunker and yanked it OB right, leading to a double-bogey 6 saved only by a 20-foot one putt. But after that The Great White Shank was off to the races. I had easy birdie opportunities on the par 4 #11 (eight feet, par), the island green par 3 #12 (a dying quail 5-iron that caught the bank and rolled to five feet, par), the par 4 #13 (twenty feet, par), and then a near hole-in-one on the par 3 #14 (1 1/2 feet, birdie) before getting sloppy on the par 4 #15 after a so-so drive and a crushed 5-wood left me only fifteen yards from the green and a forward-placed pin. Not only did I chunk my first chip, but I skulled my second attempt across the green, resulting in a triple-bogey seven.

I didn’t let that bother me, however, and I finished the final three holes with three very workman-like bogeys for a crowd-pleasing 43. While it’s true that Lone Tree’s back nine features generous fairways, I don’t care if you’re playing Pebble Beach or the local mini-golf with the flying saucers and Bluebeard’s Castle – you shoot a 43, you’re playing bona fide real golf. Not only did I hit seven consecutive fairways on the back nine (twelve total), but I was solid middle on all of them. I converted three of five GIR (green in regulation) opportunities on the back (three of eight total), and was tidy enough with only seventeen putts (36 total). What made me most satisfied was the way I hit my irons – even though I pulled a couple, they were hit square, and I know that was just the result of getting a little too upright with my takeaway, a fairly easy fix. It was a good enough performance after a rocky start.

All I really care about right now is ball contact and staying on top of the ball. I’m still a little bit in-between, hence some holes playing like Ray Charles and others like Ray Floyd (hence the title of this post), but that’s just the way it is right now. I truly believe that if I continue to do that and work on my transition and weight shift, the scores will come. Could be in time for Goodboys Invitational weekend (two weeks hence!), perhaps not. But again, it doesn’t really matter. My target of being a 20-handicap is a long-term goal, not a short one.

All I know is that yesterday felt pretty damned good, and we’ll just have to see what happens when I play my traditional send-off round at Superstition Springs G.C. one week hence. It’s hard to believe Goodboys Invitational week is almost here, but I’m back to feeling like I’m trending in the right direction. Of course, I thought that a month ago, so we’ll just have to see!

…so my cool dude Hawaiian primary care MD tells me I’m anemic and that all my red blood cell counts are way lower than they should be. He refers me to a hematologist, and it just so happens the closest hematologist to me is at the Banner MD Anderson Cancer Center just twenty minutes away on the 60, two exits short of Superstition Springs G.C.

Right from the start there’s a big interest in getting all of my medical charts from my primary care, and my appointment is booked. I start getting e-mails with all kinds of forms to fill out with careful instructions as to where I should go and what I should expect when I get there. I keep reassuring myself that I don’t have cancer, and that hematology and oncology departments are always linked together for some strange reason, but the night before my appointment I can’t sleep and find my brain turning over and over what would happen if things end up for the worst.

Tracey and I arrive at MD Anderson and are met by some friendly elderly folks dressed alike, charged with making folks feel comfortable upon their arrival. Ironically, it’s their innocent desire to make me feel comfortable that makes me feel decidedly uncomfortable, the discomfort only growing by walking by a cancer tree with colorful tags for all the patients being treated there, and a registration desk featuring a jar with little tags one can wear in support of brain cancer patients. A guy ten feet away from us is on the phone to a friend, telling him that there’s a blockage in his pancreas that the doctors are suspicious about, so they’re going to expedite a procedure to try and figure out what the heck the blockage is. All I’m thinking is if that dude has pancreatic cancer I’m looking at a dead man walking. He seems to be upbeat; all I can do is silently wish him the best.

I’m taken back to the first moment I heard that I had prostate cancer. You hear the word “cancer” and all of a sudden you’re transported to a different place, a different world where there are only two kinds of people: the folks who have cancer, and the folks who don’t. Whether or not you’re going to get it at some point in time is meaningless – as long as you don’t have it, you don’t have it. And if you have it, you have it, and there’s no hiding from it. I suppose I can call myself a cancer survivor, but I think that’s overstating it a bit. I never felt any pain with my prostate cancer, never had to be treated for it other than the relatively simple procedure to have it removed one day, then go home the next day minus one prostate gland. Sure, there are certain things I miss about not having one (no need to go into the obvious), but all in all it wasn’t that big a deal.

…certainly not like the folks you see at MD Anderson who you know are undergoing cancer treatment: the unsteady gaits, the wheelchairs, the knit hats, the gray, sallow complexions. They can try and make your initial visit as cheery and stress-free as possible, but in the end you know that one way or the other it will inevitably end up being you and a doctor in a room and the doctor describing for you what the blood tests found, good or bad. And there’s no way to hide from that. It’s spooky, it’s unnerving, and it’s uncomfortable to have to deal with the what ifs of your own mortality.

In my case, the suspicion is that it’s either something genetic, or the result of acid reflux, or perhaps a polyp in my colon causing the anemia. The fact is they don’t know, but the nice Indian doctor seemed pretty certain when she told me she didn’t think it was cancer. But until the lab results come back one way or the other you just don’t know.

And now I’m also dealing with what they are calling “several bi-lateral polyps in my lungs measuring no more than 4 mm in size”. And so I’m going to have to see a pulmonary expert to see how to treat that. I’ve long suspected that the unrelieved cough I’ve had since February and the anemia is why I can’t work out at the gym – I get winded way too easily. I can play golf, for sure, and it wouldn’t be fair to my ineptness as a golfer to blame my inconsistent scores on either my red blood cell count or my lung polyps, so I’ll just have to see where that goes. The problem is, much like my mom was, I’m a worrier by nature. And as I get older, I can’t help but think what the big breakdown in my health will end up being. There’s no point in living in denial and thinking nothing bad is ever going to happen to you; likewise, you can’t live your life in fear of what tomorrow will bring, either.

I guess all you can do is live your life to the fullest as best you can for as long as you can and keep in your thoughts and prayers all those who find themselves on the other side of the cancer equation. You’d like to ask them what it’s like – are they fighting it bravely, or are they resigned to some ultimate fate. Are they battling it with the help and support of loved ones, or virtually alone and left to their own fears and thoughts. It’s hard for me to think this way, but I guess that’s what visiting a hematologist at a cancer facility will do to you.

In the end, it’s all about your own mortality. Unlike some folks, I guess, I don’t worry about how I will be remembered when my time comes. I don’t think I will have left the world in any better or worse shape than it was when I got here nearly sixty-four years ago, and perhaps that’s the best anyone can ask. And maybe that makes it easier in the long run – no regrets, no unfulfilled dreams. Run the race to its inevitable conclusion, and listen to as much surf music and Bob Marley as you can while doing so.

It’s another hot and oppressive week in store for the Valley of the Sun. As one would expect for this time of year. A few thoughts and comments to kick off the week:

To start off, I’m going to say it right out loud, front and center. Pride Month is bullshit. The fact of the matter is that if you’re gay or lesbian, be who you are and just live your life. But don’t try to shove your lifestyle or sexual or personal preferences down my throat. I don’t do that to you, don’t do that to me. Live and let live, as they say.

…but for every other so-called classification in the LGBTQ etc. et. etc. rainbow movement, you really ought to recognize that you’re mentally ill and need to get help; for whatever lifestyle you think you are choosing, or sexual preference you are pursuing, there is nothing but a long, dark road to self-destruction and moral and spiritual death. Don’t believe anything the mainstream media is telling you about how “brave” and what a champion your are. You’re not a victim, and it’s damned well certain you’re leaving victims behind in your misplaced narcissism and perversions. People will call me a hater, but believe me when I say I write this out of love. There is a better way.

With all due respect to DNC Chair Tom Perez, yes it is.

The Red Sox 2020 season ended this weekend in London. What an embarrassment.

Looks like it’s Home Depot, not Lowe’s, for me from now on.

As hard to believe as it sounds, it wouldn’t surprise me to see Mass. Senator Elizabeth “Fauxcahauntus” Warren against Donald Trump in 2020. And the Democrats will get slaughtered. Me? I say bring it on. Would love to have that debate.

Oh man, this is awesome, especially if you like turtles.

Came upon this video on YouTube last night, and it didn’t disappoint. I’ve always considered Kate Bush as one of my favorite musical artists. There’s really no one out there that even comes close to the unique ability to combine fantasy, whimsy, and mystery as Bush does. She can be outrageous and spooky at the same time, but her music is truly one of a kind. For my money the video for “Running Up That Hill” is worth the price of admission. And the lyrics are just soooo intense. As Bush later recounted:

“[The] song is about making a deal with God to swap lives with another person. Bush explained in a 1985 interview: “It’s about a relationship between a man and a woman. They love each other very much, and the power of the relationship is something that gets in the way. It creates insecurities. It’s saying if the man could be the woman and the woman the man, if they could make a deal with God, to change places, that they’d understand what it’s like to be the other person and perhaps it would clear up misunderstandings. You know, all the little problems; there would be no problem.”

It’s long about due time that A.G. William Barr and the Department of Justice designate Antifa as the domestic terror organization it is and start identifying the money and social media organizations that allow these assholes to coordinate activities against those whom they disagree with. What happened to photo-journalist Andy Ngo is inexcusable in a modern-day Republic such as ours. You simply can’t let the bastards get away with intimidation and violence. In my view, Portland’s weasely mayor Ted Wheeler ought to be arrested and charged with aiding and abetting assault on an American for mandating the Portland police stand aside and allow the assault to take place. I don’t care what side you are on – there is no place for this kind of thing in today’s America.

…waiting for a single Democratic candidate for President condemn this kind of behavior in 5…4..3..2..1

There is a sickness in the modern-day American Left that the election of Donald Trump has helped to uncover. Make no mistake about it: Trump didn’t cause this – as I have mentioned previously, Hillary Clinton is more than at fault for allowing this kind of thing to occur when she didn’t show up once the 2016 election results were in to congratulate her opponent gracefully and facilitate a peaceful transfer of power. Being the absolute, narcissistic bitch that she is and always has been, she put herself ahead of the country and fostered the kind of insanity that has erupted as a result.