BLOGGING FROM A TO Z APRIL 2013 – LETTER “G”

GOLF

Golf is a game that was invented by the Scots and my father, being a Scot, played the hell out of it. He played at night (with flashlights) with his other deranged Scottish friends. In the winter, they all painted their balls red, and golfed in the snow. How in the hell they were able to find their balls in 8-foot drifts is beyond me, but they did. That became moot after we moved to California from Michigan. My mother was a Scot, too. My folks were native-born; my ma in Edinburgh and my dad in Glasgow and they emigrated to the US. I was born here in the United States, in Michigan.

I wasn't even this good. I'm surprised my dad overlooked my deliberately horrible swing. Here, Charles Barkley looks like he's battling a swarm of bees. Actually, I could do no wrong in his eyes; typical daddy's view towards his only child and a girl to boot.

Ma didn't care much for golf; every so often my dad would pester her into a trip to the course for 9 holes. Me? I have no golf gene. I also have no flying gene; both my parents were pilots and I hate flying. Golf is just “flog” spelled backwards. The Scots are kind of peculiar. Don't get me wrong. I'm proud of my heritage. William Wallace is an ancestor, but the Scots either invented weird stuff (Nessie?) or latched onto some crazy things invented by other nationalities. Take the bagpipes; we didn't invent those, but I adore them (a sure sign I'm a Scot.) There's a joke that goes like this: Q: Why do bagpipers walk while they play their pipes? A: To get away from the sound.

Wallace bagpipes being played by a Wallace; no English here; no offense, but Anglo-Scots creep me right the hell out.

Anyway, I went to the Driving Range exactly once with my dad and I sucked. I kept slicing and badly. I was beaning other people who were on either side of me, that's how bad I was. I went to the course with my dad and hit someone in the foursome ahead of us. We almost had a riot on the course. Damn geezer, just because I hit some old crock with his little pink plaid plus-fours and his little pink tam o' shanter, he's got to go and get all his little older, crockier friends and they came at us with their 9 irons and walkers and Larks. He needed to be hit, the old eyesore!

The guy in front 2nd from the left displayed daring individualism and wore a cowboy hat. Are there golfing cowboy boots? At least these guys are wearing long pants. The plus-fours are beyond ridic.

So, that was the end of my golfing career. My dad still golfed and golfed everywhere. He went to Saint Andrew's in Scotland and raved about it for years. What an armpit that course is! It looks like it's one big giant rough and there are 747s taking off right over your head. I'd be so worried about the things falling on my head, I wouldn't be able to concentrate. Last New Year's Eve, I couldn't concentrate on trying to look at the fireworks, because these stupid little planes were flying directly over my head; two of them and I just knew those suckers were going to fall down right on my noggin. The only good plane is the one sitting on the ground, along with the golf clubs.

THINGS BETTER LEFT UNSAID?

ROW80 DAY 5 - THINGS BETTER LEFT UNSAID?


Over the years, I have become more outspoken, particularly when it comes to voicing an opinion involving someone bullying a weaker, smaller being. I cultivated this virtue along with what some would see as the vice of just being well, outspoken. I don't seem to have developed much of a governor with the forthrightness. Some may find it offensive. Others say it's refreshing. Others say I'm deranged. I think it's amusing.


I had not even begun to develop these traits when I really hit bottom in September of 2010. Malnourished, bruised, broken bones, unable to walk and blind (well, I was already blind and this predicament is for another telling; the list grows) I was taken to TGH by DCF, where I stayed for 5 weeks. I spent another 5 weeks in a physical rehabilitation center, doing fly-bys on the cafeteria. As I was using a walker, we had slow-speed chases through the halls. The kitchen workers were half-assed in their attampts to recover the stolen goods; I weighed less than 90 pounds. But I digress.


Without saying too much more; I allowed myself to be put in that position. Through a combination of mild outlook and a vague feeling that I would always be rewarded in kind, I held my tongue and my temper. Not a good thing to do. With few exceptions, I never stood up for myself, or anyone else. I can't blame my parents; I had one who was complacent and one who was outspoken to the point of offensiveness, at times. No. What I was, was scared. The stupid thing? I've never been physically scared. I'll take anyone on and have. But verbal engagement? I'm looking for a closet to hide in.


I got over that shit after I almost died. I don't want this to be all serious, because it isn't. I go for the jugular verbally, if the situation is right. I used to do it regularly at Happy Acres. It wasn't fair there, because 1) I think I have a few more operative brain cells than my combatants and 2) I have a few more words at my fingertips.


Some of you may recall the famous, well semi-known story of Mr. C, who is 6' tall. Mr. C, to be fair to him, resembles a golem, only without the manners. He called the cops on D. She is 4'11". D, to be fair to her, resembles a garden gnome on crack, with bad skin. Mr. C called the police on D for calling him a "fucking asshole." The cops, who were well-used to "visits" to HA asked why D would call Mr. C a "swear." D said, "cause he won't do his fuckin' dishes." The cops looked at them both, incredulous. H and I were rolling around on the front porch in mirth over this shit. The cops pointed at Mr. C. "you, do your dishes." They pointed at D. "you, stop swearing." And, they left.


A few days later, H was cooking in the kitchen. Mr. C comes in and says to her, "I wish for counter space." She looks at him and says, "Bite me." He says "I do not wish to bite you, I wish for counter space." I almost fell into the sink. 


Mr. C's adventures continue. A day or so later, I was standing at the foot of the stairs in our house, talking to H and D. Mr. C comes up behind me. I know it's him. I can sense his golemness behind me. Snort. Mr. C never talked. He snorted. Snort. Impatient snort. Then, "...Move!" No "Excuse me, Pardon me, Do you mind?" I jumped and yipped. It scared me. He passed by. I said,"You could warn a person, Dumb Shit! Now, are you going to call the police, or should I call 'em myself to save time?!?"


Hilarity ensued in that hall. Mr C had a "reputation." As what, I've never quite established. He's from the Congo, or maybe it's Pluto. It's hard to tell. He golfs. I used to see him get on the Number 2 Nebraska Avenue Bus with his clubs wearing his stupid garish golf clothes and cleats, minus the hat with the puffy ball. Picture that among the 'bangers with their tats and hoes. 


He may have been trying to channel Snoop Dog, but the Dawg is way cooler. Dawg doesn't have the Mental thing going on. Besides, golf and Municipal Bus Line don't mix. The biggest gut-buster of this whole thing? The first time H and I saw him with the clubs, at different times I might add, she asked "so, are you going to club yourself about the head and shoulders with those?" and, later I asked Mr. C, "oh, off to commit mass murder today, are you?" Later, when we compared notes, I thought I was going to have to buy a truss. 


This post probably falls under number 17. A catastrophe now makes a good story later. Only this is a slow-moving one. Fo' shizzle.