Sunday, November 13, 2011

David Lynch takes over Sunday NY Times magazine!

How else can one explain today's KY 'Photo Essay' other than short of a palace coup, of sorts, @ the paper of record? Don't get me wrong; I love cornbread, a good poke at the inbred & bourbon. However this black & white jaunt thru the Bluegrass state is just plain mean; see montage right. All these folks probably would've been turned away as 'Coal Miner's Daughter' extras because - although film wanted authentic - 100% holler denizen would be a bit much for silver screen. Appears this clan has had the shack enrobed by kudzu for a more eco-friendly effect, so got to give them some props for that. Parlor game, too, in evaluating this image is determination of relationship between the far two figures as that of mother/son, brother/sister, cousins of some strip or proverbial 'D', i.e. all of the above. [Okay, admittedly that's a cheap shot, but I couldn't resist.]

Seriously, there is a pictorial way to show people of lesser (almost no) means & allow them, also, a modicum of dignity. Think of or look back upon Walker Evans' seminal Let Us Now Praise Famous Men from his WPA days. This high exposure jaunt, however, is a casting call strictly for appalachian underbelly. Gander due right at this macabre scene and then tell me the subtext is anywhere near Norman Rockwell's psychological zip code? No, it doesn't need to be 100% apple pie, the flag & a Chevy pickup to be considered bona fide 'Americana', but come on here. The Good Lord in Texas aside, what in the hell are these mullet-heads thinking by posing for this, truly, last family photo? [Admittedly cheap shot #2: "Jesse, who we gonna git now to be our date @ the Possum Dance next September? Grandma can't do the Achy-Breaker in her PowerGlide chair!"]

Not that we can't ... or shouldn't ... have a little fun at others' expense. Who amongst us, for example, wouldn't - for lady to right's photograph - possibly affix caption of "Now where in the hell did I put my teeth, Clem?". Would said Y chromosomer appreciate such mirth? Probably not, but a new clothes dryer presently appears to be higher on her personal bucket list, so other priorities must prevail. Personally, I'd be more interested in finding out what has, seemingly, got up her dander something more fierce than the astringency off the spring's initial ramps' harvest? This particular blonde lady looks more fixed-to-be-tied than the neighbor's goat that recently ate the remaining five pounds of her kinfolks' government cheese allotment from last year. [Sorry, but it would appear that admittedly cheap shot #3 is officially in the books with that last line.]

The creme de la creme, so to speak, of this pictorial output, indubitably however, is at right. Collection this fine of real man pulchritude + brains, you can't get short of TV's 'Jackass' fan club membership base. My (not) Almighty, just look at these prize winners! If they stumbled into a New York City Dale Carnegie seminar, dollars will git ya donuts that half the crowd would flee & remainder would pistol-whip the organizer for a refund. Old-timer to far left is your standard issue 'Geezer'. In old days, this would be gent manning pump @ 'filling station' where you stopped during trek down America's so-called 'blue' - for their color on most maps - highways. As for his supposedly 4 blood descendants to right, image is nothing short of a sliding scale downwards along Darwinian curve. Lad 2nd from right, by the way, obviously in training for holler clerical pursuits as evidenced by his early work handling snakes being job requirement. [Racks-up #4 in admittedly cheap shot category, for those keeping track.]

Of course - staying w/ David Lynch theme - there's got to be some 'eye candy'. As Laura Dern was systematically, repeatedly & luridly deflowered by 'Sailor' character in some epic fillum I can't recall (except, curiously, for that aspect) many years ago, there is always beauty still to be found in nature. Much like strip-mining mars the spring hillside struggling to come to life again, lass at right already has lost her innate allure due to some extremely ill-advised + thug-inspired tat-ting. Guess pictorial point is that pillaging of countryside for mineral bounty, isn't only crime down the Appalachian mountain range being perpetuated vs. under-protected. Somehow I don't think the aesthetic of 'Coal Ash Trollope' will ever inspire a Dior collection, so this young gal's plight particularly unfulfilling from anyone's perspective. At best, we can only hope that her belly lettering won't look like mangled roadside signage after unwed child #4 makes his/her appearance in this blessed world. [Calling for cheap shot tab @ five for the day ... remember, please try the veal.]

To paraphrase from epic of another time/place, "The horror, the sheer horror ..."

Sunday, August 28, 2011

Z.L.P. (Zafig Lady Parade) on LPGA

Lingering in last post’s vein of acronyms + pro golf observations, your humble scribe has detected an unexpectedly delicious dual polarity firming-up on U.S. ladies professional golf circuit. Specifically I refer to discernible fault line gaping between non-Y chromo golfers’ opposing physiques & ethnicity: female gymnast-size Asians vs. Rubens-sculpted non-Orientals. This is battle of proportions not seen since Adm. Nimitz & Yamato slugged it out over a jut of Pacific terra firma called Midway!

Yes, the female pro tour is still known for trying to hawk the Barbie-like body images of Paula Creamer, Natalie Gulbis, Morgan Pressel, etc. as their main PR image. Michelle Wie - this week’s non-winner yet again - is hybrid (pardon golf pun) case in that she straddles Asian & surfer-girl ‘bod’ boundary. There are even European entrants as part of LPGA effort, for example, as likeness of Sandra Gal (right) can attest. The fact LPGA today is fully-stocked (especially vis-à-vis So. Koreans) by diminutive ( ... + hyper-smiling) gals with surname permutations usually including Choi, Lee, Kim and/or Park, is not an argument one needs to illuminate and/or enunciate except for most severely quasi-Helen Keller amongst today's golf fans.

There’s heifer-size shift, however, happening right by stack of clean plates at head of LPGA's buffet line which Sizzler Steak House masses are not yet appreciating – big gals are taking over, baby!

This is a ‘girl thing’ too, by the way. Though previously known as home to many landed sea mammals – including most notably Masters’ winner Craig Stadler (trying to don green jacket), whose girth + ‘70’s ‘stache literally got him permanent nickname of ‘The Walrus’ – men’s pro tour has gotten progressively ‘buff-er’ since Tiger’s advent. There are a few holdover chubs + upcoming odd ball on occasion, but lion’s share of stiff (golf) shaft wielders are junior Jack LaLanne’s.

Before I plunge down neck line of this weighty issue, let me first state I have been a certified ‘Size 8 (or more) Female’ fan club member for many a moon now. This sea change does nothing but float my LPGA-enjoyment boat that much higher. Mea culpa as to my rhetorical motives aside, I thought best to make the case for this delectable development by spotlighting some of these curvy up-and-comers from undetected, till now, Peter Paul Rubens’ subsection of ladies’ Daytona, FL qualifying school.

Brittany Lincicome: Star of plus size show right now, Brittany is longest hitter on LPGA, ranked #11 as of last week in 2011 money won, but … added Canadian Open – her 2nd win this year - to resume just today. No doubt average fan most often spies her shapely profile only to think ‘Bam’ – her nickname - is really fellow player of Nordic appearance, Suzanne Pettersen, after packing away more than few extra pounds. In reality, the 5’ 10” behemoth is completely different: home-schooled American who turned pro after high school & stylistically unable to find any shirts which stay tucked-in during her powerful follow-thru. Latter heavy cross to bear, but gal swings solidly nonetheless as photo left documents.

Amanda Blumenherst: Not yet fulfilling promise of her convincing 2008 U.S. Amateur win, the 24 year old is 5’ 9” Duke graduate & clocks-in presently @ #110 in world rankings. Her physical sturdiness has been evident since her NCAA days, but she is not nearly as long as fellow blonde bomber above, Ms. Lincicome. Instead a very deft short game has been this gal’s calling card thus far. Researching her briefly on internet, apparently Amanda B. is somewhat fond of minor league baseball or, more specifically, at least 1st baseman playing for Indianapolis affiliate. That this particular fact is amongst easiest found, one cannot help think, partial testament to lesbianism-phobia LPGA fights. It's bit of oddity though – from LPGA perspective – that none of zaftig club-swingers thus far has been identified as possible non-hetero.

Caroline Hedwall: Personal fav, 2010 NCAA Div. I champion while @ OK State (Rickie Fowler’s alma mater) & 2x 2011 Euro tour winner, Ms. Hedwall is on-course antithesis, in demeanor, of her underwear’s namesake (see left) & fellow Swede, Bjorn Borg. If the contest between these lovely lasses was on basis of ‘chunk-i-tude’, Caroline H. would be easy prize-winner. Watching her during just past Evian Masters in France, this buxom putter of suryln-based balls was aggressive in her play, animated when reacting to few wayward shots & very comfortable, it appeared, with her girlish girth. That she probably equals 2 Ai Miyazato’s on butcher’s scale, is all more ironic considering her unabashed + semi-flashy style. All anyone can say to such is succinct, “You go, big golf girl!”.

Lizette Salas: Bursting into national notice merely two months ago due to three solid (albeit not 4) rounds @ U.S. Women’s Open, Ms. Salas is inheritor of Nancy Lopez mantle for full-figured Latinas in sport of golf. Product of USC Trojans & possessor of solid collegiate career, Lizette now is toiling on LPGA Futures tour – equivalent of PGA’s Nationwide circuit. Her story is quite heart-warming; no facetiousness intended. Lizette's upbringing was extremely modest according to news stories, so much so that her Dad had to cobble together a 1st set for his daughter from cast-offs @ course where he worked in Maintenance Dept. Though lacking in certain material comforts, it appears thankfully that – in the words of a great philosopher, Sir Mix-A-Lot – “red beans & rice didn’t miss her” however. Sorry, couldn't resist. [I’ll be here all week; please try the veal.]

As soon-to-die Lt. in ‘Full Metal Jacket’ concludes to his platoon during No. Vietnamese soldier’s ‘birthday party’ scene, “These are great days, bro’s!”. Indeed, my fellow boon rat buddy, indeed.

In all seriousness, it’s a veritable pleasure to see – if I may say so in my semi-full maleness – normal size women excelling in sport, not having to hide behind their clothes & also puttin’-out a lil’ somethin’ somethin’ for all my brothers to admire! That overt chauvinism aside, these large lasses are markedly different than their counterparts of non-metal woods days gone by, e.g. 'Big Momma' JoAnne Carner or Laura Davies. Today's Z.L.P.-ers appear not to care a wit that they aren't size whatever. Form-fittin' duds? Bring it on! These birdie-hunters just want to kick some ass on the short grass, baby! :)

Sunday, August 21, 2011

S.T.N.C. - Substitute Tiger Nike Curse

As 2011 ‘regular’ season of men’s pro golf concluded today @ Greensboro tourney [previously best known for being last event won by ‘Slammin’’ Sammy Snead (see left) before shuckin’ his stylin’ straw chapeau for PGA posterity], a vexsome hexing has become apparent now related to all Tiger surrogates whom Nike vainly promoted when their marquee idol’s smutty Ambien exploits originally were exposed.

Specifically to be cited are collectively + positively dreadful 2011 performances by that Nike Golf-sponsored quartet of graphite shaft charisma: S. Cink, Anthony Kim, Justin Leonard & P. Casey.

At least former most duo of group actually made 1st (but not necessarily 2nd) round of ‘playoffs’ by finishing in Top 125 for year. Cink wags-in as multi-finger winner amongst this Leper colony squadron, by coming to rest @ #82 in rankings. ‘AK’ - as countless Vegas croupiers reputedly call Mr. Kim when he rolls large in their little desert town - clearly is pacing himself with #92 slot as of year-end.

The other – besides ‘Lil' Stewey’ Cink - ex-British Open winner of group, Lone Star state's own Justin Leonard, found way not to harness his admittedly best skill – putting – on today’s final green by blowing a nice 13 footer to finish just outside Top 125. If he were a horse, laggard of group – Mr. Casey – still would have fans spying back stretch with binoculars … and waiting crock-pot cook times … for any sight of strong 2011 finish. Casey seemed to get 2x helping of toxic g. ball karma due to his excessive product enthusiasm in a couple of TV spots.

What ties together these 2011 PGA mediocrities is all were propped-up by Nike to primetime ad status once Tiger’s negatives started approximating 5 year job approval ratings of Col. Gaddafi. You remember the ads. Casey opined, on camera, re new Method putter that he “could put this into play tomorrow”. Unfortunately he meant on Hooters Tour. Justin Leonard, in contrast, calmed a wind storm just by removing head cover from new Nike Driver. Bad move by Justin L., however, as helping breeze would have given him extra 25 yards off tee so that Texan now would only be 35 yards behind average PGA tee ball.

Case of 2 'curse' survivors – Cink & Kim – is a bit confused. As to chrome-dome Stewart, Mr. C. 2x-jinxed himself prev. year by besting Tom Watson in last round of British Open, thereby denying Grim Reaper his own perverted joke. That uber-bad mojo though might have acted like 2 negatives multiplied with one another to yield positive. Regardless, Nike hawked Stewart relentlessly during drought of Tiger to burnish appeal of their new clubs, shirts’ moisture-wicking properties + “it’s resin, not rubber” balls. Dude drips manliness, so move understandable.

Regarding case of ‘Marine cut-to-Woodstock shag’ Mr. Kim, he was sidelined early in year by bad dice-throwin’ injury to right hand and, therefore, full impact of curse couldn’t seep into his golf DNA. Mostly, however, A.K. was used as background pretty boy in most of Nike’s non-Tiger focus TV ads, no doubt partially because some of his most recent casino antics allegedly not quite Rev. Billy Graham family hour material.

Said marginal behavior, however, might have been Mr. Kim's 2011 PGA performance’s salvation. Word to wise: Remember such when chance to double-down on some poor ‘schlub’ tossing snake-eyes ever presents itself!

Lesson of this post is a powerful one – other Nike golfers simply ain’t Splenda, baby! Only the ‘Real Thing’ works for ‘Swoosh’ minions in the mythic land of Ben Hogan. The anti-suits from Oregon tried to go square (besides, that is, in Driver design) & keep their golf franchise going by using lemons to peddle some hybrid club lemonade, but spell of Tiger is more powerful than French Quarter voodoo Queen with a mess of blood-marinated chicken hearts during Mardi Gras.

Give up the ghost, Nike CEO Phil Knight, and put Tiger back front-and-center in all future, at least, TV ads – even with that silly ‘soul’ patch on his devious chin. Can't possibly be any worse than conglomerate of sand wedge under-achievers you have presently muggin' in front of lens.

All those T.W. imposters are statistical chum in water now, so Nike hasn’t done any good for the brand with this alternate strategy. Time to admit defeat & embrace your 'inner bad ass' instead. Turn this setback into opportunity by repositioning Nike as sole golf brand with any 'street cred'.

As my philosophical icon, Oliver Cromwell, wrote, “Friends, hear, truly, my words & understand, earnestly, their meaning … for your own (damn) good!”. Nike Golf, your welcome in advance.

Saturday, August 6, 2011

From the archives ... Reems Creek G.C. write-up

Occasionally your humble scribe is asked to lend rhetorical hand to another's PR effort - usually for mini amounts of filthy lucre, but some nice fringes. Such is case below for local track. Believe item included in last management team's brochure to some new/alternative rag where piece put-in as pseudo reportage (but really paid advertisement).

Crafty devils! Surprised that team-o-suits didn't make a go of place, but wound-up selling inside 12 mos. Pic (right) is from back of 15th; enjoy:

Reems Creek Golf Course ... another hidden western NC gem!

Your second on four stays in the air long enough to throw a roast in the crock pot and watch it cook” - unidentified member.

Mountain golf. Didn’t know it, really, until I moved to western NC hamlet named after a settler who got himself skinned [No kidding] by his now namesake creek - odd Appalachian custom, I suppose.

Particular 18 in consideration sits, literally, on veritable edge between worlds of high-speed internet service & white lighting makin’ happening, indubitably, no more than a front nine’s yardage from the course’s furthermost OB marker. Reems Creek, also, is the only North American course by the most current of the Hawtrees, a family who have successively sculpted Royal Birkdale, home of 2008’s (British) Open, in the same generational fashion as the rite of carving the Thanksgiving turkey is passed down from grandfather to grandson.

The links style one would presume from such architectural lineage is a muffled Celtic echo, however, due to the severe topography. If the Confederates routinely had held the same kind of high ground as the green complexes here, a good chunk of our land would still be called the cornbread nation. True, bouncing one’s pellet up to the green is feasible and forced carries are relatively few. Such is little consolation though when looking at flags perched more precariously than the slope one navigates at an SUV off-road training school.

Always in superb condition, Reems Creek affords pristine mountain views long enough to see storms coming from adjoining congressional districts. With no particular advantage to one shot shape, height – as in Abdul-Jabbar - is the only prerequisite to scoring. This is the case especially with regards to half dozen Alps-like tiered + elevated greens. Fail to carry to the proper level and you might be looking at a putt with the same stopping power as the 1939 Polish Army on horseback.

Built just towards end of Soviet Union’s existence, the clubhouse & ambiance of ‘the Reemer’, as locals dubbed it adolescently long ago, is still a bit more Cadillac Sedan DeVille/Stella Stevens than BMW M5/Kim Kardashian. Certainly most of membership harkens back to Lee Trevino as their fav tour 'foreigner' rather than Anthony Kim.

That said, they are a friendly lot and have tolerated outside play since the course’s inception. We interlopers enjoy, as well, their bar/utilitarian canteen (serving a truly lovely chicken salad with apples sandwich), a practice putting green with the best views this side of the Mississippi and a driving range tilted up plus to the right severely enough that the low ball, drawing Gary Player probably would have quit the game if he had to practice here during his prime.

If you’re planning a Blue Ridge Parkway jaunt and lucky enough to have brought your 'sticks' along, come enjoy Reems Creek. Mid-week specials available even during summer's dog days. Heavily advised to take cart for not only greater enjoyment of scenic vistas, but only 'billy goat' quotient of population usually cardiovasicularly stout enough to hack humpin' full 18 without leaving 'Patrick Ewing-at-foul-line' perspiration puddles on last several back 9 greens.

Just remember if you see ole Gov. Zebulon Vance [Handsome rascal right] log cabin on passenger's side, you need to double-back a couple of par fives before going further into land of “cricks, tobac-ee & ramps eatin’”. Not that latter journey wouldn't be 'educational', but tough to find Titleists under tree cover dense enough to hide FBI's (then) 3rd most wanted for +6 years.

Sunday, July 31, 2011

Segues are for children ...

#1: Not proud that - albeit only momentarily - I wish non-operable cancers on slap-happy pledge drive announcers for public radio stations to which I do not contribute [because they’ll just use my ‘geld', no doubt, to fund fancy lattes for staff of lay-about pseudo pinko’s].

#2: Yani Tseng is a very talented golfer, seemingly a decent person and … will be LPGA's death within 38 months. Nothing personal, but white dudes have no interest in her golf, Moms think Yani is too androgynous & Ms. T. has all the allure of Phyllis Diller @ a bachelor’s party.

#3: There is no real difference between 92 & 96 degrees [but, admittedly, there is in spread twixt 72 & 76 F]. Hence, in former case, move to No. Carolina from FLA poor choice because semi-comprehensible Spanish easier on ears than hayseed English, FLA has law re spot to smoke cigar in public every 10 km & 3 months of FLA year are utterly perfect.

#4: … #3 conclusion is instantly withdrawn whenever late summer conditions cause run on generators @ Home Depot. Water in tub not meant to stand for greater time than Sarah Palin trying to explain why Paul Revere really was warning Brits of upcoming ass-kickin’!

#5: … speaking of our fav Alaskan minx, have it on good authority her next Prez run to include line, in assorted hues, of ‘elephant stompin’-on mule’ pattern tights to be sold via QVC. Ad line: “Wrap your tootsies in my pretty pantyhose & power-kick pseudo-socialists in 'nads!”. So dig that wacky chick ... especially in 4" boots like these!

#6: One of my venture capital ideas is upscale QVC-type program airing on ‘Golf Channel’ & running under banner of “Cigar Aficionado” magazine. Other than knowing no one @ Orlando G.C. HQ, not getting reply to letter sent to M. Shanken (“C.A.” Publisher) & no real business plan for project, I’m totally green light city on this one, bud!

#7: Green lights – or, rather, lack of seeing many more of them – appears to be Jack Layton’s future. NDP leader gets his party into undisputed minority/#2 federal slot for 1st time in Canadian history & turns out month later he’s got a different/2nd cancer to beat. In recent pics makes young Jerry Lewis look like old Jerry Lewis, by weight comparison.

#8: Recently in news re original star of ‘Nutty Professor’, reported that Tiger Woods standing-in this Labor Day for France's fav American comedian during Muscular Dystrophy annual telethon. Mr. Woods reputedly to verbally admonish various M.D. tykes they need to “man-up” [ ... even girls] & points-out, as well, that parading across studio floor without crutches veritable day-in-friggin'-park to his winning U.S. Open on a broken leg, Buck-O! Must admit just imagining all LifeTime TV network/non-Y chromosome partisans positively swooning to this new/softer El Tigre, warms cockles of my kryptonite heart.

#9: Can’t determine if #8 more caustic than 13 year old me advising my Dad – after he had bitched for 2 minutes about all the taxes he had to pay – that general manager from Stradivarius USA had called & wanted back half dozen violins he had rented him recently?

#10: Dad’s stutter, it should be noted, got much worse after #9 …

Wednesday, July 20, 2011

"They're all expendable ... except ME!!"

Man, oh, Manischewitz, it’s gettin' thicker than congealed grease from Taco Bell fryer in your humble scribe's 'Land O' Schadenfreude'. Luv it!

Newest addition to jettisoned personnel list in Tiger's camp is none other than longtime 'muscle', Steve Williams. Must admit I thought Kiwi’s fate ultimately would be more akin to that of ‘Mr. French’ (loyal lieutenant of Nicholson’s ‘Costello’ in The Departed) who goes down with ship via self-inflicted pie-hole lead poisoning in final scene. Perhaps Steve would've, but El Tigre didn't afford him chance. In Woods-ian fashion, Mr. Williams informed his services no longer needed as fait accompli while Tiger on fly-by awarding trophy from his own tourney.

Seriously, who’s next? Is Tiger going to fire his Mom? Mark Steinberg, the agent, is not an original. Not even his Scotty Cameron flat stick has survived the cut. Hence the title of this missive & Tiger’s ultimate mindset: “They’re all expendable … except ME! MEEE ...!!”.

Said before & shall repeat: Tiger is a jerk. Would call him a douche, but that would insult the great work done by feminine hygiene products in comparison to Mr. Woods’ efforts. So freakin' fake ... personification of old saw that you can tell he's lyin' anytime you see his lips move.

People – not bright ones – have said, ‘Tiger’s a smart guy & eventually he’ll figure his way out of all this by … [fill-in insipid blanks]’. Really?

If El Tigre was so smart, why did he hand-out his # to those dozen plus bimbo’s rather than using disposable cell phones? If he was so smart & having tough time getting new sponsors post-scandal [e.g., still hasn’t attracted new logo with which to adorn golf bag], why does he sport now that sad-ass Samuel Jackson/Jack Shaft look [ ... because you just know the 'suits' in corporate America really "dig it"]? If he was so smart, why has he antagonized the press corps heedlessly while, in contrast, Phil Mickelson probably could pack pistachios in his jockey shorts during post-round interviews & all toothless golf correspondents gladly would claim it was just a new/organic arthritis treatment he was trialing for N.I.H? No, sir. Stanford, after all, makes mistakes too; look at Herbert Hoover. Your Honor, the prosecution rests.

Tiger has shown himself, intermittently, to be a jerk, a cheap skate & an unappreciative horndog (considering his wife's - see right - comeliness) ... but no Mensa candidate in intellectual horsepower dept. Now he’s flailing around wildly while still trying to appear calm. [Admittedly situation tastier to your humble scribe than Prime Rib on Thanksgiving, but I digress ... ]

Best example of this recent T.W. behavior, by the way, was TV chat answer to perpetual queries re state of his knee and/or possible comeback to previous levels of success? To former, stock K. Bacon/Animal House “All is well” line got trotted-out in hamster’s heartbeat. To latter, however, El Tigre got defensive: “Why would I want to go back to what I was? I want to be better. That’s the whole point, to always get better.”

T.W. said “better” like Quigg says “shark” in Jaws or Gecko elongating “greed” from Mr. O. Stone's Wall St. fill-um. Tiger doesn't want to just drink 'Egyptian De-Nile' Kool-Aid, he comes armed with his own XL swizel stick to make sure it goes down smoother!

Maybe the state regulators are safe to take Greek tragedies off the advanced students’ reading lists & substitute Mr. Woods’ plight as suitable parable. Regardless it is my constitutional role to prognosticate, so I shall, possible El Tigre paths:

1.) ‘Modified hang-out’ playing option: Appropriate Nixonian term - considering Tiger’s past dissembling of info - to generalize a limited playing schedule. Key is to emphasize Tiger's desire to still compete, but diminished physical skills to do so. Basically a grand rationalizing scheme for rapid descent to ordinary ability status & goal of limping past J. Nicklaus major record before Champions Tour in headlights.

2.) Bobby Jones’ walk-away: Put-out puff pieces that Tiger wants to focus on bigger things in life & use his fame to do more than seduce thongs off Shoney’s wait staff. Stop playing competitively as Bobby Jones did after Grand Slam & move onto weightier world matters. In Mr. Woods’ case, this would be funneled, no doubt, vis-à-vis his foundation & possible public office run in CA within next decade.

3.) Seppuku (in less than true rital manner): Grisly choice, but not outside realm for someone more mixed-up + nutty than a Planter’s club store party pack. This one has psychological ring of truth, too, because at core Tiger projects an indignation that any rules apply to himself. Although painful, this would be ultimate flip-off move from someone not confrontation comfortable. Imagine circumstances would be contrived by 'His Poutiness' to make it appear his hand was forced by all us bastards in world.

My guess is #2 least likely due to Tiger’s current monthly 'nut' & need for hard cash. If his winning again doesn’t come & a new pretty boy emerges on PGA, then I’d lay $ on #3 – especially as possible unpaid bills mount & this is most cowardly option.

Regardless, Tiger is now officially a loose cannon while systematically he cuts ties with anything from former life. As 'Det. William Somerset' in Seven finds vanity to be deadly sin sufficent to inspire murder, Mr. Eldrick W.'s combination of such with ongoing unwillingness to fess-up to personal truths, will be his ultimate ruination.

As one of my late father's favorite TV detectives used to say, "Who luvs ya, baby?".

Saturday, April 23, 2011

Schadenfreude takes a holiday … to Augusta National

It was the best of times and it was … the best of times, baby! That is if you happen to be a devotee to grisly god of Schadenfreude.

Oh my, how we were laid low (temporarily) as El Tigre resurrected the double-clutch fist pump after a Sunday eagle putt @ 8. His nifty par save on 9 appeared to grease the existential skids of redemption + kick-start something that might gladden hearts in multitudes of Shoney’s waitresses throughout this great ‘all-you-can-eat buffet’ nation of ours … but NO!!! The dark deity of delight from others’ misfortune played a trick on Mr. Woods meaner than arthritic Phil Mickelson forced to wolf a pile of tofu burgers.

Sunday 2011 Tiger = 36 (even par) on back 9 = no real ‘stones’ when reaching stated desire of “just being in the mix” coming down the stretch = “A big no-can do on that 1 year delayed comeback, Houston” = borderline snarky post-round interview (yet again) with CBS = his new monogram should be T4A3 for ‘Tied 4th Again At Augusta’. Yeah, baby!

Oh, mighty Shiva (or insert here deity name of whomever you deem most appropriate as his obviously needed new religion’s top dog), how can you disappoint me so”, Tiger was heard to wail, no doubt, Sun. night back at his P.O.T.S. (Piece On The Side) compound just outside Augusta proper. To use Tiger’s own ad nauseam comment on state of his swing, yeah, you’re real close, buddy … to almost same degree that Col. Mohmar Gaddafi anytime soon will be tapping his 401K & additionally satisfying his reputed need for Ukrainian ‘side action’ by retiring to FL’s ‘The Villages’ – with, by the way, highest +65 STD rate in entire U.S. ... but, I needlessly digress.

Seriously, I'm sure Charl ‘I’m the So. African major winner not named Player, Els, Goosen nor Immelman’ will be a great champion. Look at how dominant last So. African to win the Masters has been ... Ahem. Nevertheless we’ll all be pouring cement around this hypothesis in not too distant future when, by sheer coincidence, gas is expected to return to to $2/gal., Egyptian Sandals resort slated to open & Pres. Trump tapped for NAACP's Medgar Evers Man-of-the-Year award.

Those pinpoint prognostications aside, it was a great - best in years - Master’s. By the numbers: 8 different men held/shared lead on Sun., 5 tied simultaneously on back nine, 4 different hole web-cams available via & 2 CBS commentators still believed Rory McIlroy could regroup before permanent ‘Shank City’ citizenship conferred to that mop-headed potato-meister.

Rory, Rory, boiled potatoes, Rory, Rory … Understood that you're just an innocent casualty of the toxic karma leaping about group ahead on Sunday, but … good God man, buck it up out there!

Tom Watson still leaves, each Augusta round, a peanut butter & jelly sandwich on 13’s tee for his late Caddie, Bruce Edwards. [B.E. used to nibble on such there because of its isolation from galleries.] If wiley Kansan had made cut, old looper's ghost Sun. would have been munching on soggy bread thanks to Ulsterman’s personal waterworks following tee ball frolic with Rae’s Creek tributary.

This is the Masters, young Mr. McIlroy, not the final scene from ‘Old Yeller’; get grip/act accordingly. If still weepy, rent copy of 'The Limey' & mimic main character - excepting accent - repeatedly.

Sure, I'm a bit hard on the lad. One would think, however, his growing-up amidst paramilitary & perhaps seeing some relative parading around in camo + knit ski mask, might have done the trick in backbone area, eh? Guess Rory was at bar getting a round of Guiness pints for his mates when proverbial brass potatoes were handed-out. Oh well, never to fret as shaggy Rory's horizon of links dominance about as extended as John Ensign’s senatorial career. Very next week, new Euro hotshot – Matteo Manassero – waxed R.M. on final day to become first whipper-snapper to win 2x before 18th birthday.

Moving forward, expect Rory is reduced merely to cuttin’ sod for barely post-pubescent Itai’s roof (so to speak). Besides, at least younger of these ball-strikers knows how to get his hair trimmed properly and not look like ‘Spicoli’ audition material for No. Ireland cast of ‘Fast Times At Ridgemont High’. [River-dancing subs for surfing in this imaginative off-shoot]

Re youth's prospects in general, it should be noted that David Bowie 4-some of ‘Young Americans’ – 'Little Rickie' Fowler, Hunter 'Chipper' Mahan, Bubba (no nickname needed) Watson & Dustin 'Fuggly Face' Johnson - all failed to show-up competively at this year’s 1st major. Furthermore in post Magnolia Lane news, lattermost dude, Dustin Johnson, self-entered for yearly dumb-ass Tour Player competition with May ‘Golf’ magazine profile.

After admitting hands-on involvement - as a 16 year old – to help steal a gun, buy bullets for it & that gun later being used in a murder committed by someone else, lanky lad was asked about status of his longtime Caddie, Bobby Brown. Usually club-toters don’t come-up in such pieces, but his man on the bag still being blamed for not cautioning Dustin better during 2010 PGA Championship debacle and/or earlier failure to settle down So. Carolinan @ frightful US Open final 18. “His job is secure,” definitively stated Dustin ... until “deciding to part ways” announcement broke literally before magazine's next issue could hit stands.

What a tool! 'F. Face' DJ comes-off as punk in interview. F-bomb flies repeatedly as this intellectual lightweight’s catch-all adjective. Reminded of Donnie Brasco explaining myriad uses of fugetaboutit.

Long-ball hitter didn't, suprisingly, decide to take talk show 'complete spilling-of-guts' approach in mag story. Instead Mr. Johnson neglected to reference his 2009 DUI shortly after 1st Tour win nor address indirect PR lynching of LPGA’s lovely (see left) Natalie Gulbis earlier in '11. [Blonde club-swinger said she was in relationship with D.J., but he later ducked claim when his main squeeze found-out].

Excrement - pure + simple = Dustin Johnson. Shall we nominate this obvious & odious character midget as newest target for No. American Schadenfreude fan club? "Here, here!," says my best amigo below.