Nothing But Love :: golf blogger

SHE LIVES

lots of doings since i last posted.

i received my notice that my job ends may 31 -- i'll be working april and may from home. yay!

knees have -- FINALLY -- started improving. yay!

jax moved in with us -- on a temporary basis -- about a month ago. i hope he'll be in his own place again on june 1. i was really enjoying my empty nest. not that i don't enjoy having my kids around, but ... i'm really hoping he'll move downtown, too -- it would be a great help to me with dogs when bill has to travel or be in trial or other lawyer stuff all day.

when office closed, i got my pick of office furniture. so i took a two-drawer lateral file, two desk chairs, and two 4x2-file drawer credenzas for our office area in the loft. we've filled them up with office "stuff" already (much organizing going on here, kathy!); all i have to do is figure out how i want to refinish them. the steel blue doesn't really work here.

speaking of decorating: i've got lots of plans for the loft with some of my savings from my job. i'll post when i'm all done. in the meantime, here's a view of the loft from the office area.

and here are the credenzas, as they are now (refinishing ideas would be greatly appreciated).

after my job ends, i'll be working "for" bill, taking care of billing, collecting, scheduling, and other stuff. he's already seeing the benefits of organizing his stuff. AND I'M FREE! in a manner of speaking, ahem.

here's bill in the desk area (such as it is now. a real mess. which is why we're totally redoing EVERYTHING). notice the original opaque glass brick wall from 1887.

my computer coughed a couple weeks ago, and matty's fixing it. bill's got a seminar in columbus tomorrow and will pick it up. i'm posting from my work laptop. shhhh.

i'm making coconut cupcakes tomorrow. stop in for a cupcake and a cup of coffee if you happen to find yourself in downtown cleveland!

"No" Golf

Sometimes I check the statistics for the website. Someone arrived at this website by way of a Google search: I want to love golf but don't no how.

Normally, I would not deign to discuss the difference between "no" and "know;" however, I will do so briefly, limited, of course, to the context of the subject of the Google search. That someone might be desirous of igniting a passion for the game of golf is intriguing to me.

The love of golf can be derived from the spiritual pursuit of perfection, which can never be achieved, from the struggle to overcome one's inner turmoil, which boils to the surface as anger, one of its components being impatience, and achieve inner peace and harmony. In this pursuit, one must become acquainted with one's self, attempt to know one's self, for the path to inner peace and harmony requires one to overcome those negative thoughts, feelings, and inner demons that cast a shadow upon enlightenment and seek to divert one from the path to peace and harmony.

In contemplation of the ultimate question, however, I conclude that in order to approach the game of golf in this manner, in a spiritual way, one must understand that there is a difference between "know" and "no." That one does not understand the difference between "know" and "no" or does not care to learn that there is a difference takes this discussion in a quite different direction. For such a person, the love of golf is derived from golf as a social occasion, from the camaraderie and hedonism which accompanies that camaraderie, that is, getting together with a group of asswipes who get shit-faced drunk and annoy everyone within sight and earshot.

Enemy Combatants Defined

Donald Rumsfeld has labeled those of us who engage in dissent from administration policies as traitors. McCarthyism raises its ugly head -- and who needs the House Un-American Activities Committee when the country is run by a self-proclaimed Messiah of the Republic.

A logical extension of the Government's argument in support of the establishment of Military Tribunals, even though Congress has not declared war as it only can by authority of the Constitution, to help combat the War on Terror is that because this is a borderless "war," the President can declare active political protesters, who are already under surveillance as we speak, "enemy combatants," since it is well-known that demonstrations, or as the Administration would call it, domestic terrorism, has historically caused violence and disruption of public institutions, peace, and tranquility.

The "enemy combatants," some of whom might be friends and neighbors, could be locked up for years, awaiting "trial" in a court formed by a president under a nebulous set of rules made up by a president, who ignores all sorts of laws, treaties, and the Constitution, at the whim of such a president. This has no resemblance to the concept of federalism and the Republic, as formulated by the Founding Fathers.

I hope We the People, in order to form a more perfect Union, care enough to stand up and be counted on the side of the Constitution and the Bill of Rights. Or we can maintain the attitude that it will happen only to those who "deserve" it, never to us.

As Walt Kelly's comic strip character, Pogo, who I have quoted before, pointed out, "We have met the enemy, and he is us."

Lawyers ...

Long time readers have probably gotten the idea that I do not like nearly all the lawyers in the universe. I have never been one of those "have-a-drink-at-the-Elks-Club" kind of lawyer. I've been to the local bar association clambake twice -- in Reagan's first term. I haven't been to dinner with another lawyer since 1988.

I had that car accident. Consequently, I got a bunch of letters in the mail from lawyers offering to represent me, send me to doctors, advising me I should get checked out to make sure I'm not really injured because these injuries sometimes are hidden, and if I am hurt, even ever so slightly, they can get me money at no initial cost to me.

I now have business cards and refrigerator magnets from a bunch of fucking lawyers. Imagine that ... refrigerator magnets, one with a picture of a guy surrounded by several women. I guess the subliminal message is that if I hire that lawyer, I will be surrounded by women ... or something.

When I started doing this business of being a lawyer back in the day, I was part of a "profession." Don't get me wrong ... there were lawyers who had their "bird dogs," people who would solicit potential clients and "recommend" the lawyer, but that was usually done with accident victims who were seriously hurt or in airplane crashes or train wrecks, not with someone involved in a minor fender bender. Actually, the use of “bird dogs” and the mailings I received are not so different … I suppose it's similar to the difference between a high-priced call girl and a streetwalker. They are both prostitutes, no matter what the price.

I have been approached by individuals, who have been in auto accidents and readily admit that they were not hurt; yet, they have asked me to send them to doctors who will “treat” them. One certainly can draw an inference from some of these solicitations that the lawyers can get me money, even though I'm uninjured.

The whole idea of soliciting potential clients is abhorrent to me. Some lawyers justify the practice by calling it “education.” They nobly educate the public about their rights. That's laughable.

So, I’m in court representing a guy who was sued after having rear-ended another car, causing about $750 worth of scratches to the rear bumper. That major crash occurred on March 30, 2004. The guy who got hit ran up about $6,800 in medical expenses, what with seeing his doctor and the physical therapy. He went to a chiropractor who sent him a letter in the mail after the accident, then went to his “family” doctor and was referred to therapy for his sore neck and back. On April 14th, he started doing the physical therapy, which was deep heat massage and some other stuff. On April 26th, he told his therapist he was feeling pretty good after skydiving the weekend before his visit.

What? Skydiving? With a bad back and neck? Well, it doesn’t hurt on the way down, I guess.

He also said he was playing softball twice a week. What? Twice a week? With a bad back and neck?

A week later, he started playing golf, since the weather had broken. With a bad back and neck.

He continued with his physical therapy, though, for another six months … until softball season was over.

And he wants money. Or so his lawyer says.

A Walk in the Park

There comes a time when you realize that maybe it's not real life. You wonder if they got it in one take and whether it was a one-camera or two-camera shot. Sometimes, a low angle shot is best, capturing the essence of the scene. The problem is that you're just an actor, maybe an extra, which, considering it's your own life, would not be a good thing, and not the director.

I normally walk three dogs at one time, two rambunctious boxers and a determined, inquisitive beagle, which is not always a good idea. Three dogs make a pack. Dogs in a pack have a different mindset than dogs
that travel alone. For instance, when walking singly, the young boxer is timid and unsure when other people are near; and when confronted with another dog, she is curious and is nearly always desirous of a friendly relationship.

The older boxer, alone, will let a stranger pet her and try to play with other dogs. And the beagle will howl at another dog, but keep her distance, scared, trying to use her superior vocal ability to intimidate and will approach a strange human, looking for a new friend, but vigilant nonetheless.

I had all three dogs on leashes on the sidewalk at the top of the grassy hill leading down to the river. They were rooting around on the grass, figuring who had been in the neighborhood, as two people strolled by. The two humans, a man and woman holding hands on this bright, but rather chilly afternoon, the 33-degree Lake Erie water keeping the warming rays of the sun at bay, complimented the dogs' behavior, and I stood on the grass just off the concrete sidewalk, basking in the glowing remarks.

Together, in their pack, the dogs defend their territory, which extends from one horizon to the other. The beagle is still the noisemaker, a howling diversion designed to distract any intruder into their territory; and the boxers are the enforcers, intent upon excluding interlopers.

I surmise that while my attention was diverted by the man and woman inflating my ego, a lady with a Scottish Terrier brought her dog into the pack's theater of operation and then unleashed it. Why she did such a thing, I don't know; but apparently the Scottie made a bee-line up the hill toward the pack. You see, I was distracted by the man and woman and don't rightly know exactly what the lady with the Scottish Terrier did. I'll have to wait to see the film.

Of course, my three dogs, protecting their turf, as if on cue, charged toward the Scottie, yanking their leashes. I felt my right foot sliding. Stupid, stupid me. The ground was soft, it being above freezing; and my foot continued to slide ... the splits were inevitable, which meant pulled hamstrings or some other injury; but I didn't let go of the leashes. The dogs pulled me over flat on my face and continued to pull on the leashes, striving mightily to reach the Scottie; and still I held on. As I think on it, at this point, a low camera angle, shooting up the hill, would have been ideal, the sun cooperating fully. no artificial light necessary at all.

And I slid forward, on my stomach, down the hill, headfirst, left hand outstretched still hanging on to the leashes, afraid of what the bloodthirsty minions from Hell might do en masse to the Scottie, wondering whether I could hold on. I dug my toes into the grass, hoping to grab, laughing at the idea of sliding all the way down to the bottom, finally halting my downhill slide toward the river. Prostrate on the grass, my feet splayed apart, toes of my Baffin boots dug into the soft earth, well above my head up the hill, I needed to get to my feet, the dogs still straining, barking, blood lust ever heightening, tantalizingly close to their quarry.

Finally, the Scottie's owner screamed her dog back to her side, realizing how close the tartan-plaid-sweater-covered creature had come to an agonizing death. Tapping on some kind of athleticism left over from days gone by, I struggled to one knee, grabbing the leashes with both hands, trying to reel in the murderous, blood-thirsty hounds so that I could reset my shoulder socket. And still they strained, the beagle howling and the boxers yapping, but less so as they realized the normal, unnatural order was being restored. "Stop it," I ordered; and, as if by magic, domesticity returned. The old boxer, greying in the face, turned and looked at me, stub of a tail wagging, thanking me for letting them have their fun.

In Court -- Real Life

This morning, I met with my client in court to decide whether he was going to cop a plea or go to trial. He was accused of theft, actually, aiding and abetting his friend in her adventure inside a local grocery store.

I di'n't take the stuff. I di'n't take nothin'. I paid for my stuff.
But your special lady friend took a shitload of stuff, didn't she.
I guess so.
What does that mean ... "I guess so?" She had a duffel bag. She stuffed half the meat case in the duffel bag. You were with her, right?
Yeah.
And you saw her stuffing porterhouse steaks and strip steaks in the duffel bag, right?
And sirloins.
And you went along with it.
No.
No? ... No? ... You went to the cashier, paid for your ice cream; and she stood in line behind you and then went out the door with you, carrying her duffel bag.
Yeah.
You were like runnin' interference for her ...
How's I s'posed ta know she wa'n't gonna pay.
Here's the deal, just so you know -- I'm a moron and I don't even believe that story, and there's no fucking way a jury is going to believe that crock of shit you're layin' on me.
You don't believe me?
Fuck, no.
That's bad when my law'er don't even believe me.
Bad? In legal terms, you're fucked.

Heredity

I visited the Human Genome Project website. After spending a lot of time trying to decipher just what these pesky scientists have discovered, I couldn't find the answer to my question: Is there a running-out-of-gas gene that could have been passed down to one of my progeny?

Bush Comes to Town

In my walks around downtown with the dogs, we come across various denizens of the neighborhood, one, in particular, being the homeless guy who is camped out at the manhole cover that accesses the pipes that provide steam heat to many of the downtown office buildings. Steam escapes the pipes and pours from the holes in the manhole cover, warming the concrete sidewalk around the manhole. The guy sleeps right there next to the manhole cover.

Bush came to town yesterday. The homeless guy's stake in the public lands, unfortunately for him, is located across the street from the main entrance to the Renaissance Hotel, which was hosting Bush's appearance at the City Club Forum. Sunday evening, on my walk, I noticed the homeless guy's small piece of urban real estate was vacant. Would it have been a tragedy if King George had been confronted with a fact of life in this city struggling for survival in a booming economy? It is booming, right? That's what the man says, right? Because we don't see it here. The money apparently hasn't trickled down this far yet.

The Matrix

I'm working on some law stuff -- billable hours. Stacey is taking a nap. A few minutes ago, the following conversation occurred.

Bella just grabbed Scout's ear and pulled her head back.

You're dreaming. Go back to sleep.

What do you mean I'm dreaming?

I mean Bella didn't do anything. You're dreaming.

Oh ... oh, yeah. I am dreaming.

Higher Education, Here I Come!!

I thought about getting like a Ph.D. degree. I think it would like be an awesome thing in my law practice, like it would, y'know, sound totally cool to tell people that I have a Ph.D.

But a Ph.D. to be like really good has to be from a big name school, like it would be awesome to have, y'know, like a Ph.D. in Global Political Economy and Finance or in something cool like Organizational System Development, whatever that is, or in just plain old Physics, y'know, like Einstein, from Harvard, or Princeton, or maybe even Berkley. I know someone who has like a Ph.D. from there ... he is like totally cool, traveling all over, like to China, where I've never been, and stuff like that. Yeah, if I got a Ph.D., that would just be so fucking cool.

Berkley it is ... and so surprisingly affordable!!

Ahead of Schedule

I dropped off the other half of the blog, who is quite alive, at her office and headed to one of the suburban courts in the area, where I had scheduled three cases for pretrial hearings at 9:30. I try to do that to save on travel time and gas money.

I walked into the building, through the metal detector after emptying my pockets of everything I own, and into the crowded hallway outside the courtroom. I admit that I hadn't met two of the clients in person, having spoken over the phone at length with them; so, whether I recognized anyone standing around was not important. I called out the name on the top file of the three skinny folders I pulled from my leather courier bag. No response. Not unusual for that to happen. I was ten minutes late; clients are sometimes later. I called out the name on the second file. Again, no response. I checked my watch. 9:40 ... and it was not dark outside; so I was in the proper meridiem. That was okay. I could talk to the prosecutor about the cases and then touch base with the clients.

I called out the third name. No fucking response. What the hell was going on?

I looked at the file. On the line labeled "Hearings:" Pretrial 3/16 @ 9:30.

Fuck.

"He's a Complicated Man"

Gordon Parks, who directed one of my all-time favorite films, Shaft, died yesterday. He wrote and directed The Learning Tree, the first major studio production directed by a Black man. He was a noted photographer, bringing his art and journalistic content to the masses in Life magazine for over a quarter-century, writer, poet, and novelist.

The world is a better place because of him.

On the Brink

W. and his group of war mongering profiteers formulated this deal with India to supply India with nuclear technology and nuclear fuel for “civilian” use. In exchange, India agrees to allow inspection of its “civilian” reactors, apparently to ensure that they are not being used to produce weapons-grade plutonium. But what difference does that make when India has designated some reactors “military,” which are not open to inspection and in which weapons-grade plutonium production is the primary function?

That’s no deal. It provides more nuclear fuel, which will replace fuel presently in the “civilian” reactors; and that nuclear fuel now in "civilian" reactors will be sent to the “military” reactors for processing, allowing production of more nuclear weapons of mass destruction. I guess the U.S. is looking for India to protect a foundering USA from the new red menace to India’s north and east, China, in a familiar scenario that brought unmitigated terror into the lives of American children in the 1950’s and 60’s, bringing the U.S. and the old red menace, the Soviet Union, to the brink of nuclear war, that of Mutual Assured Destruction.

What’s wrong with this picture?

George W. Bush, consistent with his belief that he has been elected King and anointed by his God Almighty to take us all to the Promised Land, has again ignored or tried to circumvent laws of the United States, laws passed by Congress, and, in fact, the Constitution of the United States of America. This time, forging a new path toward nuclear carnage, he has ignored an Act of Congress outlawing the sale of nuclear technology and nuclear material to countries which are not parties to the 1968 Treaty on the Non-Proliferation of Nuclear Weapons, the terms of which have been made permanent by the 187 nations that have ratified it. The United States of America is also bound by that treaty, of which the U. S. is a signatory country and which was ratified by a vote of the United States Senate, as required by the Constitution, and which has the force of law in this country. India has never been a party to the Treaty on the Non-Proliferation of Nuclear Weapons, and has been close to nuclear war with neighboring "terror-fighting-ally" Pakistan on countless occasions.

Of course, the President has been granted the power under the Constitution to "make Treaties," but can he make a treaty with India while ignoring what has been happening for the last 40 years in the world vis-a-vis nuclear weapons and the will of the American people? Our only hope is that more than one-third of the Senators have some sense to understand the purpose and philosophy of the Treaty on the Non-Proliferation of Nuclear Weapons and decline to be a party to the madness of King George.

Bush and his advisers are dangerous.

24

I've been watching "24," the "real time" day-in-the-life of federal agent, Jack Bauer, played by Kiefer Sutherland. I'm finally into it. I have several observations, but I will not give away any plot elements for all of you who have recorded the program for 24-hour marathon viewing.

First of all, I cannot get accustomed to that guy who played a hobbit in "Lord of the Rings" being almost normal size. If the producers were going to enlarge this little guy by computer tricks so he could be in the show, then why not go all the way and make him like a lithe six-two instead of a runty five-six?

Secondly, one would think that being on the same show for several years might cause some improvement in acting technique by virtue of just plain doing it over and over again ... you know, something about practice making things perfect. Of course, a guy named Eddie Brinkman played baseball in the majors for 15 years back in the day and never learned how to hit; so, perhaps practice doesn't always help. The actress who plays Jack's trusted confidante inside the agency, Chloe, the blond who slept with a ... oops, sorry -- plot element -- has an endless number of weird facial expressions that have nothing to do with the situation. She just makes a face ... I wait for her on-screen appearance to see what new and different expressions she has invented. I'm looking forward to the episode of "The Actors' Studio" when she will reveal her acting secrets.

Third, Peter Weller has made an appearance in the show as an ex-agent Who brought Jack Bauer into the secret government organization. Peter Weller starred as Buckaroo Banzai in The Adventures of Buckaroo Banzai Across the 8th Dimension and as the title character in Robocop. Weller is a professor of history at Syracuse University, teaching Roman and Renaissance art history. Evidently, his role as Dr. Banzai, physicist and rock star, approximates reality for Weller, historian and actor.

A two-hour "24" is on the boob tube Monday night.

This Space Reserved for Golf

The Russian attempt to jettison an old space suit into Earth orbit from the International Space Station with a beacon so that people could track it ... oh, that's educational, I guess ... was an abysmal failure.

Now, the enterprising, capitalistic Russians have come up with a new gimmick to fund the International Space Station. One of the Russians, sponsored by Element 21 Golf Company, will drive a ball off a platform attached to the space station into Earth orbit. There's all kinds of scientific talk about hitting the ball out of the same plane in which the space station orbits. Just what does that mean? It means that the golfer must not skull the shot, that is, hit the middle of the ball with the bottom edge of the six-iron, sending the ball screaming "in the same plane." On Earth, the ball would not be launched into the air, but would zing about two feet off the ground. You don't see the professional or well-heeled amateur golfers do this very often, but the hacker is known to "blade the ball" from a "thin" or "tight" fairway lie around the green quite often, sending the ball zinging over and across the green, while hoping at the same time that it hits the flagstick (not likely) or a fellow golfer who is looking for a ball behind the green (more likely).

Another "same plane" shot could be a shank, in which the ball contacts the hosel of the club and, with a right-handed golfer, can fly low and fast to the right (watching from a vantage point behind the golfer). This shot was made famous by former President Gerald Ford when he nearly killed a spectator while playing with the legendary comedian Bob Hope. Unlike Vice-President Dick Cheney, President Ford made no excuses and took responsibility for his poor shot-making. "I know I am getting better at golf because I am hitting fewer spectators," Ford once said.

If the Russian golfer should shank the ball sending it careening sidewise, the International Space Station could be damaged. Of course, when I hit golf balls in the back yard when I was younger, the evidence was apparent when I skulled one ... a round dent in the aluminum siding. In the case of the space station, some kind of space debris scientist claims that the ball could collide with the space station at a speed of 20,304 miles per hour, causing destruction of the space station.

A very strong golfer has a swing speed of about 120 miles per hour, which is the speed the clubhead is travelling at impact with the ball. It is axiomatic that a regulation golf ball struck at that swing speed will not exceed a maximum speed of about 180 miles per hour leaving the clubhead, which is what the ball will continue to travel in space relative the space station and the golfer, wearing a space suit and unlikely to be able to achieve a swing speed close to 120 mph, striking the ball. I know the space station is orbiting at about 18,000 miles per hour; so, how does the "expert" come up with a collision in excess of 20,000 miles per hour?

It is obvious that this scientist, this "expert," has never been on a golf course or hit the aluminum siding of a house. The space station has layers of Kevlar, ceramic fabrics, and other advanced materials up to 10 cm thick over its aluminum shell, something my parents' house did not have, which resisted penetration by high-speed projectiles fired by big guns. Unfortunately, a test was not done allowing a 1.62-ounce golf ball to be hit by Boris Morukov into the side of the space station, but I think that high-speed projectile test probably covered that. But I'm no expert scientist ....

Thinking back, though, I was accused of breaking an almost infinite number of basement windows with golf balls, hockey pucks, and baseballs; but I think that the windows in the space station are stronger than the 1/16th inch non-tempered glass in a steel frame that made up the basement windows, which should not create any risk to the spacemen in the space station, even if a wayward shot should hit one of the windows in the space station. In fact, the windows in the space station are made up of four layers of glass, each layer being from 1/2 to 1 1/4 inches thick.

So, where does this "expert" get his figures? And why is he such a naysayer? I'm all for some private company footing part of the space station bill. I just wish NASA would have thought of it, then the U.S. taxpayer's bill would be that much less. And so, I say, "Just do it."

Wrestling Moves

I recall that in junior high there were a couple of guys who were into "Big-Time Wrestling," the pro wrestlers that appeared on Sunday mornings on one of the five TV stations. I thought it was weird that they would walk in the school hallways, talking too loud for me to think they didn't want everyone else to know the subject of their animated discussions.

Apparently, nothing has changed in the intervening years because this evening, while on my excursion to Settlers' Landing down by the river with the dogs, the dogs gave two 40-ish men a wide berth as the two men were walking towards us up the hill, one telling the other what a great move "Randy" made, making like he was throwing an imaginary opponent over his shoulder, the other shouting "Fuckin' great! Awesome!" and pumping his fist.

Also, it's 31 F. The black T-shirt just wasn't workin' for the former, especially with his gut sticking out. And the knit cap with the ear coverings didn't do much to assure us about the sanity of the latter.

No wonder the dogs were ... frightened.