Nothing But Love :: golf blogger

Any Given Sunday

I couldn't tell this morning while walking the dogs whether the people filtering out of various buildings were really doctors or were still wearing Halloween outfits or both and whether the women filtering out of the various buildings were really sluts or were still wearing Halloween outfits or had been magically transformed from the latter to the former overnight; I didn't see any men dressed as Chippendale dancers, although many did look like Chris Farley.

At Starbucks a little later this morning, a customer waiting for her extremely hot beverage took my latte to apparently see if it was hers. It's hard to believe that as between my small latte and her medium-sized caramel macchiato, both sitting there innocently on the pick-up counter, she would grab the smaller one; and she did not grab the cup, but the top, spinning it around, palming the edge from where I would drink. "That's mine," I said, politely and cheerfully. She ignored me and continued to touch my cup lid. "What is this?" she asked nobody in particular. "That is mine," I said. "That's a tall non-fat latte. The other one is yours," the barista pointed out. The woman then took the larger cup and walked toward the door. I guess she simply forgot to apologize for contaminating the lid of my coffee cup. Before I could say anything to the barista, she asked, reaching for my cup, "New lid?"

I decided since it was so early in the morning that maybe the new Dunkin' Donuts in Lakewood would have fresh donuts. I admit that each time I try Dunkin' Donuts, it's closer to midnight than to 8 in the morning; and maybe that is the problem with never getting a fresh donut there. I am understanding about these things.

I guess I didn't get there early enough to get a fresh donut. Or does Dunkin' Donuts just plain suck? I choked down one small bite, then threw out the remainder. I don't get it. I guess regular customers appreciate the consistency of the product. I heard a rumor that there was a place out east that makes good doughnuts. I might make the drive later.

On Candy Corn

I wandered into Marc's Discount Store in Lakewood. I don't recall what I was supposed to buy, but the way the store is arranged (and perhaps the way I am arranged) leads one close to the Halloween candy. Oh, yeah, I remember. I was supposed to pick up little Milky Way bars for grand experimentation -- something about won-ton wrappers and little Milky Way bars and deep frying and dusting with powdered sugar and eating. But that's another story.

I was disoriented by the paucity of Halloween candy. There was no Brach's candy corn! Horrors! What was I going to do. For the last couple weeks, candy corn has been one of vegetables the Food Pyramid requires me to eat several times a day.

And don't ask me to prove that it's a vegetable. It's CORN. It's what those First Thanksgiving Pilgrims ate. CORN syrup is an ingredient. And isn't SOY a vegetable? SOY is an ingredient. There are those who think that SOY is a very good vegetable food. Vegans eat it with great gusto. I've heard women ordering SOY lattes in Starbucks.

I once ordered a SOY latte -- people stared at me and, zombie-like, started to surround me -- "It's not for me," I screamed; "It's for Suzanne." They backed off; several followed me, apparently to determine whether "Suzanne" really existed.

So, candy corn is technically a vegetable.

To continue before you so rudely interrupted me with the vegetable question, as I said, I saw no Brach's candy corn. In a moment of panic, I bought Blueberry Hill Foods candy corn. I realize that people have different tastes when it comes to corn. Some people like corn on the cob, some cream corn, some Niblets in butter sauce.

And there might be a couple people who like Blueberry Hill Foods candy corn, but I am not counted among them. "Made with Real Honey!" "A Fat Free Food!" Gimmicks, I say.

The Blueberry Hill Foods candy corn has a very slight cherry flavor. Maybe the Real Honey is cherry blossom honey, but the cherry flavor is definitely present. In my mind, there are only a few places for cherry flavor -- 1) cherry pies, of course, 2) Breyer's Cherry Vanilla ice cream, and 3) Smith Brothers or Luden's cherry cough drops.

Is candy corn on that list?

After 36 Years, Secret Life Revealed

I have been married for 36 years. I never knew about my wife's secret life.

I tell you, it's like waking up, and my entire life has been a dream. How could I not know about this.

I really don't think she was expecting me to be back from walking the dogs so soon. Sunday early evening is usually a time when I take the dogs for a real long walk. And today, with the 75 degree weather, it should have been no exception. But Scout didn't feel like going out. And on the walk, the other two made a bee-line home after doing their business.

Maybe they had a dog feeling.

I walked in the door. Judge Alex was on the flat screen, DVR'ed; and he had made his decision. My purported wife was seated in her comfy leather chair, feet up on the ottoman, clicker in hand (Yes, clicker. You call it a "remote control," and you're wrong. It's a clicker).

She called up the menu. And I was struck by the little orange circle with the black "R" in the center of it -- the "Record" sign.

BULL RIDING.

Bull riding? She's recording BULL RIDING? What the fuck?

Then she pointed the clicker, and a guy riding a bucking bull appeared on the flat screen. She, this stranger, said, "That's the top bull." "Uhh, what?" I asked. Yes, I heard what she said; but it made little sense in the dimension I had just entered.

I'm the one who is supposed to be fucking crazy, not her.

"They rank the bulls. This is the toughest bull to ride. Watch this," she said. Was she trying to suppress excitement in her voice? "Watch," she commanded.

The bull rider was pushing real hard, folding his hand down or something. Dare I ask her what the rider was doing? I mean, did I want to know that she knew all about bull riding? The gate opened. The bull threw the hockey-helmeted rider, chaps flying, off in a couple seconds.

The "score" was 45.3. "Wow," I said, not so much because of what happened on the flat screen, and mostly about what was happening in my life.

"A really good score is 90. That score won't move him up at all. Watch this bull; look at the diameter of the horns!" she marveled. She leaned forward, studying the flat screen, waiting for the drama to unfold.

I am frightened. I live with a stranger.

What should I do? I will not sleep tonight.

She's continuing to watch BULL RIDING, fast forwarding through the commercials, returning to the action at the moment it starts. "See how good I am fast forwarding through the commercials?" she is asking.

While she watches, I'm searching for the Twilight Zone episode. Yes, that is what I will do. See what Richard Long did in "Person or Persons Unknown." Twilight Zone always provides answers to life's complicated questions of reality.

Maybe the ending will reveal the answer ... errrr ... no, I guess not.

Lunar Water

According to an article in the journal, Science, there is water on the moon; and they aren't talking a few molecules of water here and there, but massive quantities, gallons and gallons, in a deep crater, where the temperature is -233 degrees C.

Some pesky scientists smashed a part of a rocket to the moon right into that crater and analyzed what flew up after the impact. Forty gallons of water splashed up.

Great news? Many think so. Boy, those scientists were all gathered together in the middle of their lab, holding on to each other, jumping up and down in unison, lab coat tails flying up and down, up and down. What a sight!

But I don't think it's great news.

Why, you ask? Don't you know about the tremendous possibilities, you ask? Don't you realize that men could travel to the moon and drink a glass of water or, perhaps, iced tea, you ask?

But I am skeptical about all those possibilities. And I won't drink the water.

The water, grains of ice, is highly polluted with mercury and other stuff.

... Figures.

The Upside of LeBron Leaving

The person in control of the left side of the blog, as you are looking at it, is slowly recovering from the severe post traumatic stress disorder caused by ... well, I'm no psychiatrist; so, I will not make the connection. All I know is that it wasn't me.

As the basketball season is beginning next week ... and I am disconcerted because the World Series, once a sports staple that ended by mid-October, hence, the moniker for Reggie Jackson, Mr. October ... I thought I would make observation that follows.

The last couple seasons were pretty annoying for the spectator at the Cleveland Cavaliers home games because the commercial breaks were 4, 5, 6 minutes long because of the nationally-televised games. Launching t-shirts into the crowd or dance routines by the Cavalier Girls or Lazy Boy recliner races sponsored by a local furniture store just did not take up the entire and numerous commercial breaks.

Now with LeBron James gone, the Cavs will not be on national TV; so, the commercial breaks won't be as long, the TV time-outs will be non-existent, games will start on time, and games won't be three fucking hours long.

On Football

I am the first to admit that I am not really a great fan of football. I will watch a game now and then, but I could not tell you the records of any teams or who leads the National Football League in punting average. I dislike Art Modell, who moved the Cleveland Browns to Baltimore, changed the name to the Ravens, ripped off the logo for his team from a security guard, then won the Super Bowl, because I'm supposed to dislike him.

So, I am not familiar with all the technicalities of professional football. But I do know that something is radically wrong, having read this in Sports Illustrated about the thuggish Pittsburgh Steeler hero of some Super Bowl Roman numeral, James Harrison, who hails from northeast Ohio and Kent State:

"He drew a $5,000 penalty for slamming Tennessee quarterback Vince Young to the turf Sept. 19, a play that also wasn't penalized. Harrison also was fined $5,000 last season for unnecessary roughness following a late hit on Bengals tackle Andrew Whitworth. In 2008, he drew a $20,000 fine for criticizing a roughing-the-passer penalty against him."

Does anyone else see anything wrong with this situation, or am I the only idiot who thinks that things are totally whacked?

He makes a paltry salary of $755,000, but did receive a bonus of $2.8 million for showing up to training camp. In 2008, Harrison was given a $10-million signing bonus and a $2,555,000 bonus in 2008 for making the roster, on top of his $900,000 salary. So, a $5,000 fine for nearly breaking one guy's back and smashing into another guy, trying to hurt him is a ludicrous and sick joke.

That is equivalent to a parking ticket to someone making $35,000 a year -- a $50 fine.

But wait, look at the last part -- he was fined 4 times more than that for "criticizing a roughing-the-passer penalty." He said something the NFL didn't like.

And I understand that he knocked out two players on the Cleveland Browns by hitting them in the head. Maybe he'll get a fine comparable to a speeding ticket for you and me.

What kind of lunatics are running professional football?

Oops, I'll probably be fined for criticizing them.

Sunday Morning Stroll

The dogs have decided that the weather is too nice to stay in bed even though it's not even threatening to get light at 10 to 6 in the morning in these parts. I just gave a thought to the fact that Daylight Savings Time comes to an end soon, meaning 10 to 6 in Dog Time will be 10 to 5 in Eastern Standard Time -- it was a fleeting thought that is nonetheless trying to break through the barrier into the constant thought category, and I am trying to suppress it.

Walking toward me was a homeless guy. Now, I know that you're asking yourself, "How does he know the guy is homeless?" because not every person out at 10 to 6 on a Sunday morning is a homeless guy. I know that. I think it was the jacket -- one that hung open to thigh level, kind of a used-to-be, off-white canvas coat with a lot of ground-in dirt that shaded to black in most places. And maybe the fact he was looking into the cigarette butt receptacles gave away his true identity.

The homeless guy, let's call him "Roberto," approached. "Excuse me, sir," he said (And I am always totally blown away when anyone calls me "sir" because I don't think of myself as the "sir" type; I'm more comfortable with "man," actually, not "sir." I am always like, "Is (he) (she) talking to me?" when I am called "sir."), "My name's Roberto." See, that's why I said that we should call him "Roberto."

And I just knew he was going to ask me for money. It was just a question of the approach, whether there would be a story; and I fully expected a story because Roberto was personalizing our relationship, the first step in asking for more than spare change -- probably money for the rapid train to go to the airport so he could fly to see his sick sister in St. Louis or $2.50 for the bus.

"You're a baseball player, I see," Roberto pointed out. I must admit that I was somewhat taken aback by that statement. So, I said, "Used to be."

"I thought so. You look like a baseball player," he replied. He had baited the hook, and I had bitten. He was going to reel me in.

"Yankees win last night?" he asked. "No. Rangers won, 7 to 2," I replied. Bella growled and lunged a little toward him, causing him to back away. Bella hates Yankees fans. Now.

"How about the Phillies?"

"Giants, 4 to 3," I smiled. Because for as long as I can remember, I've been a Giants fan -- long-suffering Giants fan, that is, just as I am a long-suffering Indians fan; and the irony is that the Giants last won the World Series against the Indians long before I have a memory.

And then Roberto said, with a hint of melancholy, perhaps, "Thanks, man. Appreciate it. I wasn't able to catch the games last night."

And that was that.

Problem Solved

This whole religion thing that a lot of people are into kind of gets me down. I'm like looking at the stuff that happens in the world, what with all the killing and a lot of people not rendering unto Caesar what is Caesar's and many not helping their brother like in that song, stuff like that; and I'm wondering if people really want to practice all the allegedly good things that are espoused by their prophets and spiritual leaders like Jesus and Muhammad and that guy I see on the corner of 9th and Lakeside from time to time.

I really did not want to blog about religion and stuff like that -- like I said, it kind of gets me down. But, then again, I saw this news story about the miraculous resurrection of a dog in Michigan. What does it mean? If they were talking about some image on a piece of toast, now that would be a fucking miracle, a thing to say prayers to or whatever. But a dog comes alive after it was officially dead? Not a miracle. Not the resurrection and the life they were looking for, I guess.

I'm just sayin'.

Today, I solved a significant problem in my life. I realize that not everyone has this particular problem, and I consider myself pretty lucky that it is a significant problem in my life. So many people have much more serious problems -- kid is a drug addict, perhaps; mother has Alzheimer's and hasn't recognized her son for six fucking years, maybe; M.S. striking a guy's wife, perchance (heheh, looked that up in the thesaurus); can't get below 6.7 handicap index because the guy laid down his Vespa and had to change his swing, for all one knows (that one, too) -- so, I'm lucky that the only real significant problem is socks.

Socks, you ask? Or maybe not, but I'll tell you anyway.

Socks wear out in different spots, depending on which feet they are worn. So, if you put them on the wrong feet the second time you wear them, it may be a problem -- annoying. And you may not be aware of it because it is not one of those small irritations you can put your finger on. But if you are aware of the slight difference in the way your socks feel on your feet, it becomes annoying.

But I solved the problem:

Kill Will

The Cleveland Public Theatre sent me my invitation to the production Kill Will. Yeah, they say it has something to do with Shakespeare, but I know what they are after -- realism in the theater. And if killing some sucker like me means that they succeed, then they are going to do it. I'll sit with my back to a wall. They have no idea with whom they are fucking (See how I worked that Olde English word "fucking" in there?)

And here's a leftover from the Ingenuityfest:

What is that? Is that a huge wooden ball 8 feet in diameter?
Yes. I can't remember the name of it or the artist's name. What a crappy blogger I am.

And it's not too late to pick up your FDA-approved Dip Head: Skull.

I wonder about the placement of the colon in the title of the item. Are there other types of Dip Heads? The answer is: NO. Just the skull. Go figure (Okay, so you make an exhaustive search of all the internets, wise ass!)

I came across this pair of nice shoes on display while walking the dogs the other night.

They didn't look my size (that's my Keen-encrusted foot at the bottom of the photo for comparison), and the dogs gave them a wide berth.

And because I know that everyone wants to know what they should do, I decided to restrict my candy corn purchases to Brach's Candy Corn. Safe. Secure. Consistent flavor.

You Know You've Lived in The City a Long Time When ...

I am officially a city dweller -- oh, I have an address downtown, but that doesn't necessarily mean I'm a city dweller. It's also a mental or emotional thing, too. Here's what I'm talking about. I played golf Saturday morning over in the next county.

I said excitedly, "Hey, look at the grasshopper there!"

My two friends, who each live a few minutes from the course and are apparently familiar with the species, looked at me, both with eyebrows scrunched down.

What could I say? Haven't seen a grasshopper in quite a while. Really. I haven't.

Has Burger King finally abandoned the sick fuck Burger King with the big smiley head for the equally obnoxious Pied Piper character?

And, speaking of royalty, when is Dairy Queen going to get rid of those creepy red lips in its commercials? I'm boycotting Dairy Queen.