My last ace book ... gone!

(698 words)

It’s probably so obvious they don’t even bother to mention it in Business 101, but no reasonable business plan involves giving the product away for free.

I’ve had successful business people ridicule me for giving away so many books for free. But if I had a bizzy-ness plan, I wouldn’t be a writer.

I’d be a bizzy-ness man.

So I give away a lot of books. Mostly “Use All The Crayons!” I do so with this title  because it’s the book most likely to make people happy and if I can make anyone happy for nearly nothing, by God, I’m going to do it.

I rarely give copies of “Palmer: Homespun” books away. People really love that book so they’re happy to pay for it. “Last Baby Boomer” I often discount in the hopes it’ll lead to grassroots interest in the book of which I’m most proud.

I mention all this now because I just gave away the last copy of what I consider my first real book.

It’s funny. When I’m introduced during speaking engagements, it’s often announced I’m the author of seven books.

But, really, three of the books were like magazine articles that got out of hand, or jerk-off joke books. One was, “Manly Golf: 50 Ways to Muscle Your Way to Victory!” It came with sticker tattoos.

Not the kind of titles you’d see on any “Also by John Grisham …” page 

But there was one book, my first “real” book, that for some reason I rarely mention when talking about my roster.

It’s “Hole in One! The Complete Book of Fact, Legend and Lore of Golf’s Luckiest Shot.”

Published in 2003, it was called in 2009 “the Bible on golf’s most amazing shot” by, ahem, The New York Times. That’s prestigious. None of my other books have been praised by The Times.

So why don’t I talk about it?

I think it’s because at some point I began to resent the hell out of the book. I don’t remember a single royalty check, group purchase or simple one-to-one cash transaction.

Worse, I bet I gave away 1,000 copies for free.

This is because I’d early on thought it would be nifty promotion if I’d give a free signed copy to anyone who approached me with a verifiable ace.

All to people who were lucky enough to get an ace (odds, 12,500-to-1) or clever enough to bamboozle me into believing they’d had (odds, 5-to-2).

More resentment. I, the author of the most comprehensive book on aces, has never seen nor had one of his own.

It’s cosmically cruel. 

So I was not unhappy when I noticed all I had left were two ace books. 

And I was not at all unhappy when my friend Denny C., a retired Hempfield high school guidance counselor and a true gent, aced a local course and earned the second-to-last book. 

Coincidentally, Denny and I were golfing last month when he hit a ball that looked like a sure ace. As the ball was sailing straight at the cup, I wasn’t rooting it on. I wasn’t ecstatic with split-second anticipation. 

No, I was thinking, gee, what’s the etiquette if this goes in? Do I give him another ace book?

My quandary was averted when the ball came to rest 4 inches to the left of the cup and last week I learned my friend Jan L. aced the 10th hole at one of my favorite courses, The Palmer Course at Stonewall Resort in Roanoke, West Virginia.

Thus, my last ace book is gone. I’m no longer golf’s self-appointed welcome wagon to one of game’s rarest club, one to which I don’t belong. I wrote the book on aces, but if there’s a secret handshake no one’s telling me. 

I have no more self-imposed obligation to congratulate those who’ve proven far more fortunate than I.

I’ll just continue to simmer that while, according to The NYTimes, I’m the factual repository of more great stories of good fortune than anyone in golf, that same fortune has teased and evaded me for nearly 50 years.

Good luck?

Good riddance!

Related …

YouTuber of me telling the story of Arnold Palmer seeing me nearly ace

New York Times cites me, my ace book

Turning the page on golf calendars

Golfing with my handicaps

(675 words)

It is said with an earnest concern I find humbling, which is why I feel ashamed when I respond with jackass humor whenever someone asks me if because of my condition I’m unable to golf.

“No, I can’t,” I say. “I can’t drive. I can’t putt. My short game is appalling. So, no, I cannot golf.”

I let that sink in a moment before delivering the punchline most of you saw coming a mile away.

“… But then again, I never could.”

Thus, this is a story about a chronic muscular failure combined with a neurological regression that leads to anxiety and persistent feelings of failure.

Think I’m talking about Parkinson’s? No. 

I’m talking about golf! 

And because this about golf, I feel compelled to once again share the greatest line I’ve ever heard about golf, which isn’t really about golf at all, but is instead about sex.

And in the end it’s always about sex.

I was talking in 2007 with a new golf fanatic — he was in his mid-30s — who’d driven 38 hours from Denver to Pittsburgh to watch Tiger Woods play golf at Oakmont. He was out of his mind for golf.

“The first time I ever set foot on a golf course was 6-months ago. It was the most fun I’ve ever had at something I was so bad at since the night I lost my virginity.”

I told him I wrote for Golf Magazine and that was the greatest line I’d ever heard about golf.

He said, “You write for Golf Magazine? Man, you must be good!”

I said assuming I was good at golf because I wrote about the sport was like assuming sex with an adult film actress would be really hot just because she’s done a lot of porn, which is maybe the world’s worst analogy. But I persist in using it because it allows me a moment of illicit revery about sex with a porn star and that always leaves me feeling, oh, what’s the word?

Presidential?

I’ve played twice this year. Had a 108 Tuesday at Ligonier C.C. and spent a good deal of time wondering why I continue to pursue something I’m so bad at with no realistic hopes of a more satisfying performance — and we’re talking about golf, not sex, although the lines are beginning to blur. 

People ask if golf is so frustrating, why bother spending 4- or 5-hours doing it, a statement that is about 98 percent incorrect. Very little actual golf occurs during your typical round of golf. 

Your average golfer is only golfing for about 3 minutes during a round of golf, that is 3 minutes when the golfer is standing there engaged in the process of executing an actual golf shot golf.

The rest of the time is spent drinking beer, racing golf carts, whizzing against a tree  and gamely laughing at everything your mates say the way the gang at the old Bada Bing laughed when Tony Soprano cracked a joke. 

One of the requirements of being an acceptable golf partner is to lol in non-humorous situations where other people merely type lol.

Faking a good maniacal laugh, like faking a gangbuster orgasm, is tedious, but both deceptions can be essential to building relationships. 

In golf, fake laughter establishes open-minded acceptance so authentic camaraderie can be achieved later on when everybody is good and drunk and everything seems funnier than when you’re sober. And that golf camaraderie is for me the best part thing about golf.

It’s why I’ve lately been quoting the line, “A great day of golf involves where you played, how you played and with whom you played — and the first two are overrated.”

So, yes, I’m still playing golf and taking great joy out of a day spent drinking beer, racing golf carts whizzing against a tree and playing about 3 minutes of golf.

The instant I can no longer enjoy a day like that, well, I’m screwed.

Told you it’d in the end be all about sex.

Related …

Finally, I golf

After 15 years, turning the page on golf calendars

NYTimes features me, my ace book

Dad had real balls, real (golf) balls

Yesterday, Arnold Palmer watched me golf

Of golfers & God

Dad had balls, real (golf) balls

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I remember just a few things about the 2002 Golf Magazine story I did about the man with the world’s largest golf ball collection.

I remember he had more than 36,000 golf balls from around the globe. I remember he lived in York, Pennsylvania. And I remember my Dad being eager to learn the collector’s secrets.

I told him nothing. 

That’s because what I most remember most about the man with the world’s largest golf ball collection was what his wife said to me.

“I just pray to God I die before he does,” she said with the utmost sincerity.

The golf ball collection nearly consumed their entire house. She had no idea how she was going to dispose of the enormous collection without it swamping her remaining years.

I told her she ought to think about becoming an avid golfer.

Not a good golfer, mind you. Just an avid one, one who played a lot and sprayed golf balls all over creation.

Like me!

I thought of that forlorn woman Sunday when I was going through Dad’s old golf ball collection.

He died in 2004, but his collection of more than 500 logo balls from all over North America remained in his room with about 100 of the most prestigious ones on a custom made display.

There’d been no need to dispose of it, but now we’re making plans to move my Mom out of there so I’m going through all the stuff that was too meager to sell, but too substantial to dump.

They’re something odd to every one else about any kind of collection.

As a former National Enquirer reporter, I’ve probably seen more than most.

I’ve written stories about people who collected colossal numbers of ashtrays, snow globes, matchbooks, shrunken heads, coins, stamps, guitar picks, Pez dispensers, lunch boxes, locks of celebrity hair, lighters, neckties — you name it.

Beer cans?

I did a story about a Houston guy who built an entire house of old beer cans he’d drunk himself.

It was a big house and he was a very big guy.

I used to have a lot of vinyl record albums, but those were replaced by CDs and now digital. I have 8,709 songs from 949 albums but thanks to soulless miniaturization they’re contained on a device no bigger than a deck of cards.

Songs are now marketed in a way that one of the things that matters most to me — music — will be easily disposed of by another — my surviving children.

It’s different with books, which I doubt I’ll ever read digitally. I have about 300 books at home. I’d have more — I love books — but I can’t let the collection sprawl beyond the family basement room. 

Dad never said what he wanted me to do with all his golf balls he’d bequeath.

I’d gone to Mom’s on Sunday to clean up crap and got diverted by golf memories. Besides all those balls, there were also a lot of photo albums from Myrtle Beach golf trips with Dad and all our buddies.

So many pictures reminding me of so many good times.

Those I’m keeping.

What will I do with all the balls that once meant so much to the Old Man?

I’ll pollute the planet.

I’ll one-by-one scatter them in lakes, streams, woods and other once-pristine eco-systems that have become area golf courses.

Yes, I’ll golf ‘em till they’re all gone.

I could lose a ball for each hole for the next 27 consecutive rounds — it’s entirely possible — and still have some left over until I had to play more carefully.

Fat chance of that ever happening.

When it comes to golf balls, I’ll always be more hitter than hoarder.

And that’s they way it’s always going to be.

I know of a nearby big box sporting goods store that’ll never run out.

Yes, I can always find balls at Dick’s.

Related . . .

I buy books

Finally, I golf

Gone 10 years now, still can’t bury Dad

For Earth Day, a recycled post

I’m philosophically opposed to re-running old blog posts -- and I really need to get over that -- but I find it perfectly acceptable to do so on Earth Day when I can pass it off as recycling.

So here’s the same Earth Day blog post I’ve run the past two years.

But first, Tweet of the Week (8days2amish)! "It is said Mother Nature abhors a vacuum. That must explain why earth is so dirt-y.”

Happy Earth Day!

I’d planned on spending Earth Day scattering dense trash on pristine lands and in deep lakes where the environmental obscenities will likely linger for centuries.

Some future explorer would find them in some distant age. She may shake her head at my carelessness and exclaim, “Wow, someone with a really nasty slice used to roam these lands. We’re miles from the nearest golf course!”

It is my Earth Day custom to bang Titleists deep in the western Pennsylvania forests. I lose about four or five golf balls every single time I tee it up. I putt good, my iron play is strong, but I can’t hit a straight drive to save my life.

Most people don’t consider lost golf balls trash. I do. I can’t sleep the night before I golf knowing there’s nothing I can do to prevent defacing Mother Earth with my dimpled, non-biodegradable spheres.

Maybe I take things too seriously.

Like the saving the planet. I take it very seriously.

I aim to reduce, reuse and recycle everything. I vowed last year I would never step over another piece of trash. Now I carry a recyclable plastic bag with me on my walks and usually have enough cups, wrappers and papers to get about half a bag full.

I could accumulate more if I wobbled along in a drunken sort of weave into the bushes and gutters, but that would take too long and would reduce the happy time I spend in the bar developing a true drunken weave the old-fashioned way

Still, I know I could do more. I’ve read that the average American discards 28 pounds of trash each week into our bulging landfills. Our family is way below that, but not near the average household in Oslo, Norway, where they produce just four pounds of weekly trash.

Four pounds! What, is Oslo populated entirely by Keebler elves?

Still, even they are pikers compared to the world’s best recyclers. For every single pound of trash you and I produce, this trash-devouring little superhero is capable of recycling it into an equivalent amount of something useful and nutritious.

Behold, the red wiggler worm!

I did a story about the practice of vermiculture four years ago and immediately became enthralled with the ambi-sexterous red wiggler worms. The tiny slimies simply fascinate. It takes a trained eye and, I’d guess, an atomic level microscope, but every worm is a hermaphrodite generously bestowed with organs of both sexes.

The condition is not enough to make me want to tune in to worm porn night on the Animal Planet, but I’ll never again look at another worm and believe it must endure a boring or lonely existence.

As it was explained to me, “These worms simply live to eat and reproduce. Basically, the worm is just a mouth, anus and a microscopic little brain.”

I asked, given these base characteristics, how the red wiggler worm differed from your typical radio talk show host.

“Well, the worm actually contributes some good to society. About 45 percent of all our waste stream comes from food and paper products, both of which are compostable materials. Worms can convert these common waste products into nutrient-rich soil fertilizer to energize your gardens.”

I was sold. I got a little bin, a softball sized ball of 1,000 little wigglers and soon our family started putting apple cores, banana peels, lettuce scraps, tea bags, potato peels, etc. into the bin along with showers of shredded newspapers. The warm worm poo makes great fertilizer.

So now when strangers ask what I do for a living, I always answer “I’m a worm farmer.”

And it’s true. Sure, I do a lot of writing, but there’s rarely even a penny of commerce involved in the exercise. I used to say blogging was the journalistic equivalent of running a lemonade stand until I realized that even 8 year olds know enough to charge a quarter for a glass of lemonade.

Worm farming is a productive pursuit that reduces vile pollution. Some critics would argue blogging is the exact opposite.

So instead of golfing on this Earth Day, I’m putting on my worm farmer bib overalls and am heading to Baggeley Elementary School to teach my daughter’s second grade class about the joys of vermiculture or worm farming.

I’ve done it the past couple of years and it’s always a joy to see the kids fussing over the bin full of worms as they frolick amidst all the rich worm poo.

But it’s not all fun and games. I don’t let the kids get too out of hand.

It might upset the worms.

And, take my word for it,  no one wants to see a hermaphroditic red wiggler get all excited in front of a classroom full of second graders.

Wisconsin by a foot

Every time I begin thinking the ear is the ugliest part of the human body I get a glimpse of my barefeet and am reminded the ears will always be runner ups. The terrible daily pounding taken by the feet shows. It’s hands-down the ugliest part of the body.

I think I saw the ugliest feet in my life last week on my way to Wisconsin. It was on a connecting flight from Atlanta to Milwaukee. I had the middle seat. Aisle seat seemed like a crabby guy who resented that I had to squeeze past him to the middle. That’s why I was glad window seat seemed so friendly.

The guy had a really nice smile under what looked like a Santa starter beard. I figured we’d be talking sports before take off. But that was before a truly offensive sort of take off occurred.

As the plane began to taxi, he reached down and took off his blue croks. Now, any man wearing blue croks is showing terrible judgment, but what he did next had me looking around for a parachute and the nearest emergency exit.

He reached down, slipped off the silly blue croks and crossed his leg so that his horrible barefoot was practically resting on my leg. I recoiled as if a leper had plopped down on my lap. The heel was cracked and calloused. With the slightest bit of turbulence it would have ripped multiple holes in my nice khakis. The yellow toenails resembled witches’ teeth.

Amazingly, the middle and window seats on the other side of the aisle were vacant. In violation of every FAA rule and under the scowls of the bitter and overworked flight attendants, I dove over two startled aisle passengers as if I was escaping a live grenade.

It may have been the ugliest human body part I’ve ever seen. Perhaps it was coincidence, but I’ve had trouble sleeping ever since.

Maybe the gods figured they owed me after that because I had a wonderful time in Wisconsin. They treated me and two other golf writers like kings. I played five of the golf-rich state’s best courses (Erin Hills, Whistling Straits, The Bog, Wild Rock and Grand Geneva). The dining was superb.

On the last day under perfect blue skies amidst spangled autumn trees, I played golf with two great guys at The Bog, a magnificent Arnold Palmer course where they welcomed me, a Latrobe resident on assignment to Palmer’s Kingdom magazine, as if I were Palmer himself.

I told my golf partners all about my week and the fine dining and confided I was looking forward to hearty staples like hamburgers and good pizza.

They gave me directions to a place called Sobelman’s behind an obstacle course of construction in a grungy warehouse district of downtown Milwaukee. The place was packed with friendly Brewer fans who were getting ready for the home playoff game against the Phillies.

The friendly owner seemed aghast that I’d been sitting at his bar, unattended for maybe two minutes (I’ve been a regular at places where I’d need to shave between servings so two minutes was nothing to me). He immediately poured me a free beer, the first of three, and I began calculating how my life would change if I moved my family to Milwaukee just to be close to a bar this cool.

The Bloody Mary’s were like salads with vodka dressing. Each pole vault sized-stalk of celery was pinned with a shrimp, a pearl onion, a cherry tomato, an asparagus spear, a jalapeno pepper, a chunk of cheddar and a delicious little dinner sausage. It’s the best Bloody Mary I’ve ever had. Nothing else even comes close.

And the burger was up there, too (the best is still Tessaro’s in Bloomfield near Pittsburgh), but this was outstanding. It had four cheeses, bacon, jalapeno peppers and mustard.

I liked Milwaukee a lot. Friendly people, great bars and restaurants, petty parks and I got to take my picture with the "Bronze Fonz"(give it a Google).

I’m going to try and get around to writing about all that stuff when I finish up my assignment. But the story I’m most looking forward to writing is based on what I saw at the Kohler Design Museum in the world's most posh factory town.

The museum features all the sinks, showers, tubs and faucets that have helped the Kohler family build a bathroom and kitchen empire and lavishly funded the fabulous town and golf resort that is the magnificent centerpiece of the golf boom taking over the state.

But what struck me was the 50-foot wall of commodes in the rear (go ahead and make your own jokes) of the museum. It towers over the space like a troupe of Chinese acrobats stacking porcelain chairs. They rise majestically from floor to ceiling, hundreds of them. If it were possible to flush them simultaneously, it would rival the storied Bellagio water show in Las Vegas.

Truly, in Kohler, the throne itself is king.

My love of stories like this has really held my career back. To succeed, I’m sure I should focus on all the splendors I enjoyed. I should concentrate on the sumptuous dining, the excellent golf, the friendly people and the splendid scenery.

But, no, I intend to forge ahead and write about the great wall of potties.

There’s never been a more perfect metaphor for why my turbulent career’s often in the crapper.

Mamma Mia! I'm liking chick flicks!

Like most golfers, I’ve tried to train my brain to adhere to a stringent set of commands I try to recite as I get ready to smack the ball.

“Keep your head down . . . make a full turn . . . keep the left arm straight . . . finish with the belt buckle pointing toward the hole.”

Instead for the last two weeks, every single time I draw the club back the words screaming through my mind are the lushly orchestrated lyrics, “You are the Dancing Queen! Young and sweet! Only 17! Ohhhh, yeahhhh!!!”

Now, to be clear for any of you who’ve never seen me or my picture, my brain is mistaken on all counts. I’m not the Dancing Queen. I’m not young. I’m not sweet. I’m not 17.

Oh, no.

What I am is a middle-aged father who recently got dragged by his 7-year-old daughter to see “Mamma Mia,” the Meryl Streep/Pierce Brosnan movie full of the virulently infectious Abba songs (and is Abba the world’s shortest and most alphabetically prominent palindrome? Probably).

Dragged is a little harsh, I guess. I was thrilled to go. I love to see movies with my family, especially the great Pixars like “Finding Nemo,” “The Incredibles,” or “Ratatouille.” I recommend them for even people who don’t have their own or just plain hate kids. They’re wonderfully entertaining.

To me, seeing a matinee with my daughter draped across my lap is a tiny bit of heaven, especially if I’m suffering from a mild hangover. It’s like taking a nap with my eyes open.

If I’m hungover and not at the movie, I’ll be under the watchful eyes of my sober-minded wife and my own insinuating conscience that says I really ought to be cleaning out the basement or doing something productive other than laying on the couch, barely alive, using Three Stooges reruns to help me cope with the nausea.

But “Mamma Mia” was the first time Josie wanted me to go with her to see a more adult movie. She and her Mommy had loved it.

And, yes, I did, too. The story was lively, the cast engaging and the scenary breathtaking, especially when it focused on the vivacious star Amanda Seyfried, an Allentown, Pennsylvania, native about whom I’ll always think tender thoughts whenever I hear the depressing Billy Joel song about that Rust Belt town.

They may not make steel anymore in Allentown, but if they keep making ‘em like her, wow, to hell with wage-producing industries.
It was all campy good fun. I’d pay all night to watch Brosnan try to sing. He’s terrible, knows it, doesn’t try to hide it and when he sings is as laugh-out-loud funny as anything Moe, Curly and Larry ever filmed.

But now I can’t get any of the damned songs out of my head, and not just because Josie asked me to download a bunch of them.

There’s “S.O.S.,” “Does Your Mother Know?” “Super Trouper” and a half dozen others. Right now, I’m trying to sanitize my mind by blasting through a playlist with Tom Petty, The Stones, Steve Earle, The Who and James McMurtry.

It’s no good. Those four pale Swedes in leisure suits are still kicking all their rock ‘n’ roll asses.

Mamma Mia! I’ve reached a muscial Waterloo. I’m sending out an S.O.S and wondering . . . how can I . . . . even try . . . to go on?

Here’s my Top 10 list of other chick flicks I’m man enough to admit liking and reasons why any guy should:

10. “Waitress,” 2006, Adrienne Shelly’s poignant swan song features a hilariously sarcastic Andy Griffith.

9. “The Devil Wears Prada,” 2006, Anne Hathaway’s such a babe.

8. “Terms of Endearment,” 1983, Jack Nicholson’s absolutely hilarious.

7. “Gone with the Wind,” 1939, I was surprised to see this on Chick Flick lists. A chick flick? It’s Clark Gable’s movie. A classic movie and one damn fine introduction to celluloid profanity.

6. -- 1. . . . I’m still thinking . . . still I’m thinking . . .