Nothing But Love :: golf blogger

Invitation to Disaster

There was a time last year when people were calling me to get seats to Cleveland Cavalier basketball games. I could have made a fortune selling the tickets I had. I didn't. I invited people to games and did not expect them to pay and refused payment when offered.

So, we now fast forward to the recent past -- yesterday, last night's Cavs basketball game. I found a taker, a serious and long-time Cavs fan, for two of the seats.

The long-absent blogger on my right, which is on your left as you look at your computer screen, is not attending games. A boycott, she says. Fair weather fan, some say; I remain aloof and uninvolved in her personal Cavs fan drama.

I had an extra ducat to the game. I went down my list of people to call and text, but everyone claimed to be "busy." Do people really have Christmas parties on a Monday night? Do people really have to "work late" the Monday before Christmas? Is Hannukah still going on, and is it really as holy as it was made out to be?

"My back is bothering me. Sorry." Really? He's the guy who went to the Knicks game last season exactly one week after having back surgery. Sure, yeah. Just wait until you want a ticket to the playoff games.

So, I sat in the coffee shop to see if I knew anyone I hadn't asked. Nobody. I suppose I could've asked some stranger; but, with my luck, I would have been sitting next to a serial killer. So, I started to walk to the Q. And then I ran into one of my neighbors, who lives down the hall, who was smiling, wanting to know where I was headed. I thought that was a good sign. I told him and asked if he wanted to go to the game.

"I'm wrapping Christmas presents."

What?

The Blob

It was 1962. My mom and dad finally decided to trust me enough to ride my bike to the Mapletown Theater with several other kids, but not before reminding me several times not to go anywhere with a stranger.

It was Saturday afternoon. Horror movie Saturday. The Blob was the feature, starring some guy named Steven McQueen.

I'm watching The Blob on TCM. Cool.

But then I figured out that Steve McQueen has been dead for 30 years. And I won't do the math to figure out when 1962 happened. It was just a couple years ago.

I need time travel.

Snow Day

I try to be a good little lawyer and get to court on time; so, I arrived to the courtroom, after clearing security, this morning at 8:35 for a 9 o'clock hearing. The courtroom was dark. The bailiff came in at about 8:45 and told me there was a weather delay, and we wouldn't be starting until 10.

There was no additional snow from yesterday morning. The temperature was 20 degrees, which is not unusual for this time of year. This is not someplace like Raleigh, North Carolina, or another southern city, where people panic at the thought of a little snow or freezing rain. This is Cleveland. Rough around the edges. Tough. Or is that bullshit?

The bailiff told me that the delay was announced and broadcast on the news last night and this morning -- with the school closings. School closings?

What the fuck is that all about. School closings?

This isn't school. I don't have kids in school any more.

And I don't watch the news anymore. Too fucking depressing. I get all the information I need by reading post-apocalyptic graphic novels.

Costco and Caskets

I was looking for an appropriate Christmas gift on the Costco website for a loved one. I think I found something.

And you know how I am, at least my one or two faithful readers know how I am -- it might be only one faithful reader, however, because a guy said something today about Google prowling the internet with Googlebots; so, maybe the one IP address in California is Google. Well, it's nice to know that one out of two visitors might be a real person -- from Russia, no less. Nice. Очень хорошо.

Anyway, curiosity got the best of me. There is a category or department on the Costco website entitled FUNERALS; so, I clicked on it. I found this top-of-the-line casket.

Standard shipping is three days, barring a natural disaster or other "Act of God." It's difficult to predict an "Act of God."

Would God really be that nasty?

Now, you want to be prepared because that's the way you roll. You order your coffin from Costco, saving a lot of money in this miserable economy the President you helped elect has failed to cure in the two long years he has been in office.

Be that as it may, you know a good deal when you see one, especially in the holiday season. You've checked out the testimonials, and The Edward seems to be well-liked.

You figure you can store it in the shed out back along with the John Deere lawn tractor and mower deck, the detachable snow plowing blade, your garden tools, the propane tanks for the grill, the three gasoline cans, one holding 5 gallons, for the tractor, until such time as you need such an item and to save money because, with inflation, the price of high-end Costco coffins will invariably go up, and saving money is oh-so-important in this tough economy; and you head out to the shed to clear room for the casket because it's being delivered two days hence because, of course, you want to be prepared because that's the way you roll.

The weather, what with that theoretical global warming, has been so hot and dry that you haven't cut your lawn, grass being dormant because of the sprinkling ban, in -- gee, it's been a long, long while.

You key the padlock on the shed door. Just at that fraction of a second, your mind plays a trick on you. You see a fleeting image of a label at the gas station, fleeting because the spark from the key touching the padlock ignites the gasoline fumes seeping out of the hotter-than-Hell shed and … well, it didn't hurt all that much, actually.

The coffin is scheduled to arrive in two days, exclusive of weekends, and barring an "Act of God" or other natural disaster. If you are into that God thing, then any natural disaster is an "Act of God;" but Costco doesn't discriminate, and the heathens, and you are one of those, are covered. And you're dead. It doesn't much matter to you when the coffin arrives.

By the way, did you tell anyone that your coffin is being delivered to your house?

Atlas Shrugged

I was in Atlanta on business, arriving Monday night. My client scheduled our flights out for Friday -- today. I am sorry to all those people from Atlanta I may offend by this, but I really did not want to stay in Atlanta until Friday at 5:45 p.m. and thought I would be done with the business at hand by Wednesday at 1:30 p.m.

Unfortunately, nobody believed me. When I told the guy in charge "1:30 tomorrow, sir," he looked at me askance, as if I was discussing Hawk's Constant.

And I admit that I was wrong. We were done at 2:15 p.m. Wednesday. And, again, meaning no disrespect, especially to the 8 greater Atlanta-ites who apparently liked what I served up, I wanted to leave Atlanta because -- let's just say it was dreary, cold, rainy, and windy; and I told my client to get me on the next available flight out of town.

He couldn't get me a guaranteed seat. I said, "Let's drive;" so we did.

On the way out of town, I saw this sign:

Well, I thought it was funny. I guess you had to be there.