The changing definition of "comely"

One of the direct benefits of building one's library carefully is that you can become a defacto niche subject expert by being able to easily compare information when tackling a new work from the already well-rutted paths transversing the always-frothing frontier of the self-perpetuating intelligentsia. An indirect nice result is that you can sometimes glimmer how things become what they are today (and what they weren't back when).

Example of such is the meandering definition of 'comely' - a word which this scribe is oft wont to employ when describing, especially, the distaff portion of the population. I stumbled across this beaut whilst derivating 'pulchritude', another fav. Granted 'comely' has fallen out of frequency, a pity, due to its nasty single entendre sound. Growing-up I heard it used, in particular, in dual veins and the far more effective was to describe the appearance of a low/bad women when suitably cleaned-up (or otherwise made to look presentable).

My coffee-table reinforced Webster's 2nd edition - still my definitive source - puts 'comely' down as "handsome, attractive, ..." in the 1st definition, but, right after, denotes it as being "decent, suitable, proper, becoming, ...". This latter part leads to the alternative, albeit tongue-in-cheek, usage I've heard which is to comment upon (particularly a lass in attire inappropriate outside the boudoir) how "comely" one appears when not quite at Sunday best.

Cole Porter lyricized far better than I can tap out, but - to borrow with pride - "Times have changed and we've often rewound the clock". Maybe that's a tad much, but the online Merriam-Webster lead definition is "pleasurably conforming to notions of good appearance, suitability or proportion". Now "suitable" would never brush elbows with "proper", which, even today, retains its moralistic tinge. The kissing cousin of "suitable" is adequate and such is surely not "proper". All that said, where does "proportion" creep-in now? It's instructive, as well, that one of the synonyms for the Webster's 2nd edition is "graceful" and the only given for the (inferior) Internet take is "beautiful". As this blog's initial post expounded upon the deeper meaning of grace as part of its eponym, I need not go further that "beautiful" is something in a related but different realm than "graceful".

All this in weighted consideration, it would appear that "comely" has lost its vestigal virgin, so to speak, component. Even a lady such as the specimen to the right could be considered "comely" as long as she didn't stand too close to the Papal procession - unless, of course, our Holy Father was making an initial white hat pilgrimage to Las Vegas and our damsel then would be considered in native attire. Certainly Ms. McDonald fulfills the "proportionate" part of the new derivation. Ahem.

Let this etymology excursion also show how words change in our language, English, over time and such can be quite instructive when considering, for example, what the Founding Fathers truly meant in any given document. It's not just the archaic "Prey tell, Sir" that is the oddity to be considered. Of course - and to end on a punchline - the ladies above would still serve as the most fulsome examples of what our storied ancestors, in this case the first Mr. John Adams, had in mind when speaking of this land as an "abundant and munificent one"!

Making subordinates silently suffer (for one's own amusement)

Being fortunate (or maybe not) to have managed, at various levels, a number of people (though certainly far less than pole spreader, to left, Mr. Moses), I've derived a few lessons for personal enjoyment of the endeavor. Yes the job needs to be done well, but having a little fun (even if only for yourself) along the way is surely not a negative thing and - if parlayed properly - can be as welcome as the sight of an ice cream truck in Baghdad's Green Zone. Taken as a given when dealing with union and/or production people, the less said is better and communication should be as direct as Alec Baldwin leaving a voicemail for his daughter. However the white collar ranks subordinate to oneself offer a veritable cornucopia of sitting duck targets for sarcasm.

So lets delve concretely into this potential funbox, none better I'd say since "A Night At The Opera", of making mirth at the expense of your underlings' sense of psychological stability. My favorite target is the morning rejoinder to the poster child of hackneyed salutations - "How are you?" (and its myrid bastard offspring such as "How are you doin'?", "How's it goin'?", etc.). 'Good morning' is a perfectly fine phrase that imparts no obligation upon the receiptient other than a mirror response. It implies felicity and friendliness without feigned interest. Using tone can change its meaning far more greatly than any addition of verbiage. The brevitaciousness of it, examples efficiency and, additionally, is perfect for tossing off blithely while making time down a packed hallway without the need even to break stride.

But no, say the boob masses, to this economical and socially ecumenical salutation. 'Good morning' isn't good enough for the fake empathizers. Though one oft is not fully awake and/or in need still of the first AM java imbiment, this isn't excuse for said pikers to refrain from a feeble attempt of putting one on the psychological mat to attempt a quick well-being assessment of yourself. That they care not an iota, is not the point. Pre-conditioned to emit said greeting, anything other than an answered 'Fine', 'Great' or its ilk certainly will send them spiraling into confusion more fiercely than when Capt. Kirk revealed to a misguided VGER (sic Voyager) satellite he wasn't the ontologically correct "Creator". [A claim, incidentally, that he had not recanted the night before, one can presume, to some comely Yeo-woman, but ole James T. can be forgiven the lapse, I'm sure you'll agree, based on his previous path-breaking pursuit of amorous pleasure from a distaff member of the green-hued race (see above).]

So, in the spirt of doing a social good for the community, let me share my current Top Ten responses to subordinates silly enough to greet their grandiose and all-knowing Pooh-Bah with inquiry as to how I might be?

#10 - "Better than Tim Russert"

#9 - "More excited than Eliot Spitzer getting to ride bareback"

#8 - "Like the tumor grew another three inches just last night"

#7 - "What's it to you?"

#6 - "Pleased only that I have one less day managing people such as yourself"

#5 - "Better than you because I actually know how to do my job"

#4 - "Like Eva making tea & scones in the Bunker"

#3 - "Strangely saddened that I didn't stroke-out sometime after midnight"

#2 - "Shocked that in my dream last night you actually enjoyed what happened"

#1 - "Much like the Vietnamese after the fall of Saigon"

... and the hits just keep comin'!

2008 Masters @ Augusta National

Your faithful correspondent is quite late in posting this missive, but a thousand pardons, oh mighty Sahib! I had the pleasure of attending, this year, all day Tuesday and most of Wednesday - the par 3 tournament day. Although not nearly as chilly as last year's Saturday & Sunday rounds, which I most contentedly shivered-through, much of Tuesday afternoon was quite cool. To stave off the potential for ill health, I was forced to return to the main merchandise shop, in fact, after lunch to add a rose-colored mohair-esque sweater for immediate wearing to my earlier-purchased four digit bonfire of shirts in various lengths, sundry outerwear, a couple of caps, ditto number of visors & other general Augusta bric-a-brac which were awaiting my pickup later that day (and strained to fit inside two oversized bags) just next door in the convenient check stand. "One must stay flexible and in the moment", as I am oft wont to say, so I was well-positioned to handle this unexpected contingency.

Besides being one of the best snaps taken, above photo of Mr. Gary Player has been placed strategically for three reasons. First, this year marked the 30th anniversary of G.P.'s last Masters victory. Second, Mr. Player broke the record of Masters' appearances with his participation this year. Third is a detail not normally noticed. In the left corner of this photo and walking down the 2nd fairway - site of this shot - is the eventual winner of the 2008 tourney, Mr. Trevor Immelman. Many know that Trevor has been a protege of sorts of Mr. Player's, but I can report that Tuesday saw a lovely South African practice round foursome of these two fine ball-strikers plus fellow countrymen Retief Goosen and Tim Clark. The fifth and best known South African in the field, Mr. Ernie Els (seen above to the right) was on the grounds that day, but not playing with his mates. 'Double E' did have, however. a long range session under the direct eye of Mr. Butch Harmon, his then brand new coach.

Being on the course right as the gates opened Tuesday, a few (albeit minor) sights of interest/curiousity were unobscured and, fortunately, I got some good shots. To the left is the infamous Scorer's Tent just off the 18th green. TV coverage often shows the leaders inside or hugging family members walking to it, but I think most people would be very surprised at how dinky the building is actually. Could a decent horsepower John Deere, for example, fit in there? I think not.

Speaking of getting on the course early, I can't recommend enough doing so. On Wednesday - my shopping completed the day before at a fully-stocked pro shop - I took the entrance which feeds into the corner of the course by the 16th Green and 14th tee. This is one of the best places to enter the grounds as there are some pretty (and comfortably flat) stone walls upon to sit while waiting as well as a large (and very efficient) concession stand on the way down with coffee plus (tasty) biscuits at the usual modest Augusta prices. To the right above is a shot from just moments before the fellow in the official green jacket gently admonished the 'Patrons' to walk (and not run) plus, of course, welcomed us graciously to Augusta.

Another early morning snap of note is to the left, showing the Par Three course just as the first rays of sunshine are penetrating through the trees. The Par Three course is in back of Butler Cabin and a treat to stroll. You've heard, I'm sure, everyone recycle the cliche that "Augusta is much hillier than it appears on TV". Though hackneyed, it's similarly the case that the Par Three layout has some pronounced dips in elevation too. On Tuesday, 'Patrons' were allowed to walk this short course at their leisure and the ropes were just being put-up for the next day's contest. What most don't know is that the Masters has used the Par Three as a lab of sorts for the the full 18's greens. Originally not included in Bobby Jones' plans and creation of it vetoed by him on a couple of occasions, the Par Three first had the current grass used on the now lightnin'-slick main course.

Shan't bore the cognescenti with regurgitations of changes made at St. Bobby J.'s holy spot, but couldn't resist shot to the right of the tee marker from the couple-of-years ago stretched-out par 4 11th. 505 yards and that's from a few yards in front of where the Sunday tees go. Meaty, baby! The year of the change in the 11th's tees, it was one of the best places to watch the action because no one thought to walk back there. The tee itself is obscured from view anywhere else unless one walks down a service cart path or happens to follow a golfer for one of the only long walks between holes. One change this year of note is the new viewing area high to the left of the 16th green. My picture from there was not of Scavullo-like quality, so it's not included. Nevertheless that area has been set-up very well; formerly it was a heapin' stripeful of rhodendrum. From this new ground one can clearly - if distantly - see the action on the 6th and 15th green. Only issue is that the pitch of the ground there is such that on a damp day some 'Patrons', if not careful, might easily go ass-over-tea kettle while setting-up their non-arm chair seats. [n.b., The officials will not let you bring-in any chair that has arms.]

Probably not the smartest move, but I'll reveal where I like to set-up my chair for at least one day of the practice rounds and how to access such most efficiently. Although it sounds counter-intuitive, I go for right side of the 10th green by entering the grounds behind the 14th tee. First, I like the area because players always are dropping at least a couple of balls in the right greenside bunker and practicing the short explosion to the anticipated Saturday pin position front right [See snap near bottom of Mr. Michael Campbell]. If your chair is set-up towards the left of the sitting area, you're no more than 10 feet from a player there and have a direct line of sight to the other main practice spot on the green - back left chipping to the usual Sunday pin siting. Second, the sitting area is in a bit of a dale so noise from passing crowds is minimal. Third, the green is ensconced by tall trees so only the rare shaft of direct light bothers one during a prolonged sitting and the 'roast chicken' potential is, thereby, quite low. Above to the left is a snap from putting down my chair just after rapidly strolling-up 14 fairway and cutting across 15 tee to find my magic spot. Nice, eh? By entering in back of 14 tee, the queue is much shorter than the main clubhouse entrance and you need not negotiate the concession stands' main area traffic for better broken-field power-walking.

Trying to be purposeful plus original, I sought to get good photos of that which only being on the ground would reveal (and was relevant). The best example I have from the most recent trip is the shot to the right of the 18th fairway in the foreground and looking back to the tee. Beside the afore-mentioned cliched hilliness of the course, most folks don't realize that some - not nearly the majority however - of Augusta has some decent knobs in the fairway. As if putting the ball in the proper part of the green was not hard enough, these slanted lies add considerable strain that doesn't come through on the telly (nor are commented-on much by the broadcast sycophants). Here's the evidence for 18 and, as one can see, it makes the left side of the fairway no bargain for a second shot even if one steers away successfully from the infamous [Think Sandy Lyle in 1988] bunker.

To wrap-up this rather voluminous post, Mr. Jack Nicklaus, past patron saint of the high long iron, did make an unnannounced appearance on the main course for a Wednesday practice round. The Golden Bear played with Gary Player, Bernhard Langer and Martin Kaymer, a German first-time participant. I believe they started on #10 and I was in my chair greenside before most of the crowd knew they had gone out instead of just warming-up on the range for the later-in-the-day Par Three contest. Unfortunately I didn't get a good snap of Jack (which is tragic in that the pride of Columbus, OH wore a very sporting green-on-light-green blouse that would gladly fill a special nook in my golf closet if I ever stumbled across it for purchase). Instead I have to the above left my best action photo of the trip; Mr. Michael Campbell, the New Zealand native who captured the U.S. Open in 2005 @ Pinehurst, coming-out of the right greenside bunker on #10. As one can still see the ball rotating in the upper right hand corner of the snap, me think M.C. might want to work on staying-down a tad longer in his bunker play. Tsk, tsk.

A truly splendid time was had and - if only once - I recommend a trip to Augusta for all those who love our shared passion and supreme sport!

Deductive proof of SNL's Hillary bias

Amongst myriad story lines of the current and deliciously debilitating Democratic candidates' steel cage match, a recent twist is that Sen. Barack Obama has been subjected now to tighter scrutiny due to 'Saturday Night Live' (SNL) poking fun at his allegedly light treatment under the media's gaze. They have lampooned, in fact, the networks as literally fawning over the pride of Illinois (and Hawaii) while raking the estimable Sen. Hillary Clinton over the proverbial coals in a kind of reverse gender bias. This cover-fire effort on SNL's part is clever admittedly, but it cannot mask their obvious pro-Hillary tilt proven by, as I will demonstrate, the comedic gold mine they have deigned to decidedly swerve away from on the highway of hijinks that usually is their main avenue. The full shame of the episode is the fulsome quiver of delightful barbs we have missed enjoying as a result.

What are you babbling about, old man? I may never have brought Mel Brooks a fresh copy of the "Wall Street Journal" with a bagel (as was his habit to walk into work with religiously per a couple of 'Your Show Of Shows' writers interviewed for a documentary), but you don't have to be a Sid Caesar alum nor a Texas School Book Depository conspiratist to realize that 'Saturday Night Live' has avoided the best bit possible in an effort to not hurt candidate Hillary's chances. For your sarcastic pleasure, take yourself back to a day after the South Carolina primary and imagine the following phone exchange between Senator and former President Clinton as a not yet ready for prime time sketch on that show which begins quite late on the sixth day of most weeks:

HC (Hillary Clinton): "Bill, Bill, are you there ..."

BC (Bill Clinton): "I'm here, Senator, heh, heh ..."

HC: "Look you moon pie-suckin' moron, let me be blunt. If you can't say something helpful, then go back to your old habit of stuffing Big Macs in that fat mouth of yours. I need you denigrating Obama's win like paid advice from Rush Limbaugh. Make one more crack comparing his win in South Carolina to Jesse Jackson's and I'll leak it that the stars & bars are prominently tatted on your own sagging ass!".

BC: "I'm sorry, Hill, it's just ... "

HC: " ... and stop calling me 'Hill'! A hill is negative; no one wants to go up one, idiot. You start getting on-track or I'll drop your fat ass before this election ends plus I'll still pick-up even more women's votes, if that's possible, and a slice of Christain house fraus when I ball my eyes out during the obligatory Barbara Walters interview!"

BC: "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Please don't leave me."

HC: "Leave you, that's the least I could do and just you remember that. If you don't get your butt in gear and start helping me, you'll be lucky I don't go on QVC with Gennifer Flowers as my model for a pant suits line sporting a sewn-in side pocket to house the taser gun that I should have pumped in your love pocket after your post-radio address sessions with that chunky tart. It makes me sick, Mr. Man Stain, that I have to stay with such a pathetic peckerhead like you in order to be the first woman president, but your ass is grass if I don't pull it off. You got it, blubber boy!"

BC: "I understand, Hill .. ary, I'm sorry."

HC: "Aw, shut up. Just listening to you makes me want to wretch worse than when Pat Moynihan tried to cop a cheap feel. It's bad enough none of your staff I hired knows jack any- more about running a campaign. Now go out there, keep it in your pants until post-election and try not to say anything else too stupid for at least a month. Comprende, Senor Punta?"

BC: "Yes, Ma'am ..."

HC: Click.

Adding in the appropriate wardrobe and good imitations, this is an obvious bit to have done and keep adding to as the Presidential race progressed. One could even work-in Senator Obama, as Barack bemoans his own bride becoming more than a bit strident in denouncing past American transgressions regarding racial policies. Just as the Illinois Democrat was finishing-up his complaint about such in the make-up room before a debate, our persecuted heroine could come striding in at full bileous throttle.

HC: "Look Rezko, Jr., don't bitch to me about toting some excess baggage. I got a two hundred pound plus overblown male libido hangin' around my neck like a friggin' albatross. I'd give a Congressional Medal of Honor to any nut job that would just put a cap in his cheatin' fat ass so I could pull the right strings to keep him in a medical coma until well after my re-election campaign was in the bag."

The possibilities are endless. Threats by Hillary of putting Bill on display in the East Room with only a presidential seal for a jock strap and the official Camp David dog collar should he continue to fail towing the line ... and the hits just keep comin'! We've already seen the spoof of Hillary being an automaton hardwired by evil programmers for world domination, lets now, please, explore her 'General Patton with a hangover' side. Through deductive reasoning alone it's palpably obvious that 'Saturday Night Live' has consciously chosen not to pursue this satirical line of attack in order to, in their own small way, enhance the New York Senator's chances vis-a-vis the decidedly, over the long term, less ripe for riposte Mr. Obama. Quelle c'est horrible!

As my Latin teacher would say, "Quad eratum demonstratum".

RIP (not): Vitaly Vasilyevich Fedorchuk

In the twisted tradition of olden days, the death of the 'Butcher of Urkraine', as Vasilyevich was known to his former higher-up KGB cronies, was not reported until ten days after it occurred. So who was this guy (plus why should anyone outside his family care)? The latter is interesting in that no survivors were mentioned; another oblique homage to the 'recent unpleasantness'. As far as why anyone else should bother with this barbarous fellow's memory, his death is a mile marker - maybe one of the last - for a world that only some of us still remember (and I'm not just referring to the past de rigeur practice of all U.S.S.R. leaders seeming to grease back their hair with a full package of uncooked bacon before an official portrait was snapped). Fedorchuk was, quite literally, the blunt end that enslaved, killed & tortured hundreds of millions under the guise of maintaining the Soviet State over roughly four score years for its ruling Leninist thugs.

"Don't immanentize the eschaton!" has been the battle cry of conservatives (most notably the late William F. Buckley) for decades, but it was best employed in the fight against the ole U.S.S.R. In a nutshell, the phrase meant a dedicated struggle against any scheme, political system or other philosophical skullduggery which sought to make the promised rewards of an afterlife happen in the here and now of our everyday life. That promise - of an achievable 'Heaven On Earth' - is the succor that blinded the weak-minded, but sometimes artistically gifted (Paul Robeson, Pete Seeger, Diego Rivera, Frieda Khalko, Phil Donahue, etc. ... just kidding on second lattermost), to defend a repressive Soviet state for years after its true political offspring - Josef Stalin - had liquidated his opposition on a percentage basis not seen ever again until the brief hell-on-earth of Pol Pot's regime.

Fedorchuk was the protege of the one of the last of the pre-Perestroika leaders, Yuri Andropov (seen most charismatically at left). Andropov, who headed the KGB as did, briefly, Fedorchuk due to older man's string-pulling, is acknowledged to have been one of the brightest post-Stalin C.C.C.P. chairmen. Following the manner of other capable leaders however, Andropov surrounded himself with adept henchmen who could handle the dirty work without having to smudge his own fingers. In Fedorchuk, Mr. Andropov found a willing acolyte who relished his work. From a string of mysterious disappearances during a stint in Vienna to his ruthless reprisals against any glint of resurgent Ukrainian nationalism (his own homeland), Vasilyevich, his patronimic [Slavs do not usually have middle names, but employ patronimics amongst friends & colleagues; 'Vasilyevich' literally means 'son of William'], assiduously earned his bones at progressive levels of wretchedness before attaining the rank of full General. For a time, Fedorchuk was in charge of all non-military forces in the U.S.S.R. It is a testament to what life was like back then that even "The New York Times" obituary could not definitely ascertain what Fedorchuk was doing during one stretch in his career and only alluded to the possibility that he had been stationed somewhere in Asia.

So this is a good thing and the world has moved beyond a painful place in history, right? My days of amateur Sovietology are more than a dozen years removed from when Vladimir Putin was only a yellow belt in martial arts, but I wouldn't make this statement. In the - and I hesitate to call them good - ole days, Kremlinology was a dark art of watching limousines discharge certain Politburo members or checking-out the lineup on Red Square reviewing stands in order to ascertain what might be in the political offing. Such tea leaf analysis is gone in these CNN times, but it doesn't mean your dissident status still won't earn you a free sabbatical in a suitably dreary Russian psychiatric institution. Oddly enough the argument of how the Rus cannot be ruled by a strong man, is gaining currency again. That breakaway republics now have the ability to put spare nuclear weaponry on open markets just short of Ebay, cannot be seen as a positive development from the immediate past, as I'm sure most will agree readily. Chalk it up to my own encroaching old age and its attendant nostalgia of a perverse sort, but the end of any era should be suitably marked and this post seeks to do such.

May you rot in Hades, Comrade Vasilyevich, and have all your past victims comfortably sitting nearby sipping cool ice tea!

Environmental Sustainability vis-a-vis Golf: Part I - The Ball & Clubs

Doesn't this title sound officious? Dusting off, sir, a failed joint disciplinary doctoral thesis in macro-economic horticulture for the leisure endeavors of an American upper middle class? I should be so lucky, but, nay. Let me explain.

For many years I've made a nice amount of money in the realm of packaging for food companies, so I come at environmental sustainability from a slightly different angle than the typical green-sided, but closet quasi-socialist (just kidding), bear. Unfortunately for Mother Nature, the integrity of the product for food beats out a myriad of sustainable alternatives for fear of potential tampering. Gone were the days of not wrapping food in polystyrene when, under my working watch, some expelled John Bircher dropped anti-most everything not white male (gays, abortionists, lovers of Keynesiasm, etc.) in some tasty frozen cobblers ensconced within cartons. Although firmly straddling the mental right field foul line, our tamperer had the wherewithal to bring a nicely sharpened blade to cut through the glue line and, thereby, slip in his missives of hate. As odious as the verbiage, my fear was that the wack-a-do could have inserted something more lethal. Polystyrene wrap went on all cobblers post haste.

To put more resin-based packaging in the world was regrettable and necessary, but not just from a CYA liability perspective. The environment is supreme, however not allowing an innocent to be hurt trumps the ole gal. That said, there are oceans of arenas where such concerns are not on the agenda, thankfully, and much pro-active work could be done. Most specifically is in the high holy sport, golf, and, particularly, the truly carbon-unfriendly current ball used to the bain of course architects, the average player (albeit unknowingly) and, arguably, the sport's continued cost sustainability. In just this example, a specification modification would spare the game a further downward drift in overall participation, lower maintenance expenses and position the sport at the vanguard of environmental sustainability.

Right now golf is as odiferous as spilt milk in terms of environmental sustainability. Not that it is any worse than most other professional sports. The ironic part of the story is tri-fold. First, unlike other athletic pastimes, spectators of this sport actually still play the game with regularity. Second, golf springs from the most bucolic of inspirations and has a natural lineage with, well, nature. Third, from its earliest stages the game was played in a very environmentally friendly manner which included its necessary implements of balls and the original technology of hickory-shafted plus steel-headed golf clubs.

That courses use pestcides and need vast amounts of carbon-unfriendly equipment for maintenance, will be addressed in a pro-active manner via subsequent posts. The implements of golf - ball & clubs - are the present focus. Lets skip consideration of how the top-knotted 'Featherie' evolved into today's multi-layer polyurethane construction, but, instead, start from a statement made by no less than Jack Nicklaus (seen at right slightly out of sync in his Rockette-inspired celebratory jig) suggesting the throttling back in the flight of the ball as the prime avenue for not prematurely obsolescing many of the finest existing courses. Why so?

Because the ball - along with the clubs & players conditioning - has so improved over the past twenty years, there is literally no room left on scores of the best courses to push back tees so that holes do not become mere pushovers for the game's long-hitters. Approach shots which called for a stiff four iron in Ben Hogan's day are now punch eights. Even the great Augusta National had to buy land from its downscale country club neighbor near Amen Corner just to scoot back one set of tees. Other facilities do not have such luxury due to space limitations and/or monetary considerations. What to do?

"Limit the damn ball!", is a current cri de coeur and one supported by more than just the afore-mentioned Golden Bear. Another tact would be scaling back the clubs. As referenced, the original hickory shafts were prime compost material and the steel heads wouldn't have survived Mao's 1957 Great Leap Forward for want of increased production numbers as they easily could have been re-smelted. True enough, but hickory shafts required, also, a different type of swing that has not been taught since Harry Truman still played Rummy with the remnants of the Pendergast gang. Returning to such - although done presently by some hardcore enthusiasts - might prove too much of a shock to the system in the short term. Nice idea, but not viable.

An environmentally friendly plus flight-limited ball, however, is a veritable - to mix sports metaphors - home-run for all concerned. Point A: Less distance does not mean necessarily a change in trajectory, but it does prevent a number of great courses from entering the endanged species list for continued high level play. Point B: Courses, to be considered PGA tournament worthy, would not now have to be stretched-out beyond 7000 yards. So what? The amount of yards you have, Mr. Club Manager, directly impacts your maintenance budget. Less space means you have to cut, seed, weed, spray, etc. well, less, and that saves mucho dinero in the long run. Point C: Just because professionals are obligated to play a flight-limited ball doesn't mean that amateurs have to throw-out their existing inventory. In fact, this move would be a huge sales bonanza for equipment companies as it would give them their first true line extension since balata went the way of knickers. Even hackers will buy a box or two of the new balls just to see their difference in play. I can easily imagine a world where the existing 'steroid balls' - as I'm sure they'll be known in the future - will still be bought, but their deliriterious impact vitiated through carbon credit surcharges tacked onto the price. Point D: The environment. Shorter courses mean less pesticides, fewer lawn tractor hours spewing exhaust to keep fairways cut and many carbon-unfriendly balls not not decomposing properly at the bottom of hazy ponds.

What would an environmentally friendly but flight-limited ball look like? I don't have the foggiest. It would conform to the rules of golf in weight plus dimension, most definitely. No doubt, also, it would have to be bio-degradable over some half-life considerably less than spent nuclear fuel rods. Hopefully it won't get cut too badly as the old spheres of yore, but somehow I think the equipment folks won't mind making more. Golf companies' ability to find a solution, I believe, is not an issue. My experience with the miracles of medical technological advances is limited to "The New York Times" business section admittedly, but it is still incredible what the similarly-schooled propeller heads of the golf world have done since I looped around moons ago with a set of Powerbilt persimmon woods. They'll figure it out, I'm sure. As well, I'd wager that there will be some bamboo and/or hemp in the new pellet because these two near-nirvana substances seem to have a positive benefit in most everything else one can wear, walk-on and/or sit-on. George Washington grew hemp in his pre-1776 days, so don't be surprised by a potential patriotic tie-in with, say, Gary McCord - in powdered wig + appropriate britches - spanking smartly one of these new beauties down a fairway in the obligatory TV commercial.

The trick to this modest proposal is that it must come pro-actively from the PGA, USGA and Royal & Ancient. There must be a firm implementation timeline; my suggestion is five years from the announcement. The rules for the new ball must be clear and a testing methodolgy for flight limitation plus biodegradability published concommitantly with news of the rule change. Golf always has purported always to hold itself to a higher standard. This is a chance to pour quick-crete around such presumptions.

Lets do it! Write Mr. Tim Finchem, PGA Commissioner, at his Florida office and support this modest proposal.

The political lesson of "He doth protest too much?"

As I tap out this missive, the scourge of the Empire State's red meat Republicans, Gov. Eliot Spitzer [In smiling times to the left], twists in the wind more violently than a kite run amok in a late season Nor' easter due to his alleged involvement with a very upscale prostitution ring. At news of Spitzer's plight surely the boys on Wall Street haven't been this pleased since the shank of Alan Greenspan's Fed tenure, but, instead, I want to take to task the sheer idiocy of the commentary being spewed forth presently by the annoited network talking heads. Of specific appallingness is their collectively stated "shock" over this "suprising turn" of developments. They are puzzled that such a beacon of publicly avowed anti-corruption bluster, i.e. Eliot 'Emperor's Club' Spitzer, could be snared in such a seedy affair. Obviously news that Lindbergh actually made it across the pond might overwhelm these intellectual plankton, so we'll hold-off on exploration of this other shocking story for now.

Why is their suprise utterly unwarranted? I submit with alacrity the case of William E. Gladstone, a man of multifold accomplishments plus England's only four-time Prime Minister (and during, nonetheless, the heyday of the British Empire [Pun intended to Spitzer's plight]). Gladstone's tenure in office alone makes the overall political career and not yet two year reign of Eliot Spitzer look, by comparison, like a flyspeck on the window screen of history. The connection being? Amongst many, many good books out there on British political figures of note, lets pry open a bit and explore briefly - besides salaciously - Roy Jenkins' history of the Grand Old Man, as Gladstone was known [Or 'GOM', for short, which Benjamin Disraeli, that singularly wicked chap and perpetual thorn in Gladstone's side, remarked really stood for "God's Only Mistake"].

In Jenkins' oeuvre one finds a thoroughly proselytizing Gladstone, rife with moral indignations of full field enthusiasm, and a man whose "charity" compelled him to befriend prostitutes for their own betterment. As Jenkins (a former leading light in British politics himself) notes, Gladstone could have spent his efforts alternatively assisting broken-down alcoholics or penniless orphans. Instead the relentlessly charging Gladstone chose this arena with purpose. From his pre-university days, the future Prime Minister would seek out these "heavenly creatures", as Gladstone desribes a particular lampost lady via Italian in his diary, and tried to minister them back to the righteous path. His subsequent guilt, however, over his admitted attraction to them - and other falls from grace vis-a-vis consumed lewd material - compelled him, as Jenkins describes in detail, to many years-long acts of physical self-flagellation. Said repentance was denoted by a whip-like icon in his meticulous diaries.

Sigmund Freud deserves the full credit for bringing out clinically what another famous British William, Mr. Shakespeare, only alluded to centuries before in "Hamlet". In only one of that play's famous quotes, the Lady's supposed 'protest' is meant more, as I understand it, to proclaim than argue against. Regardless, the point is that very often that which one rails against most vociferously is precisely that which troubles internal resistance most. Find something which particularly vexes a politician, usually a man, into flights of rhetorical self-righteousness and you're probably not too far from finding Ground Zero for a personal/psychological battle of possible Stalingrad proportions. The only hitch to this instance is usually those of the liberal bent get caught up in matters of money and it's the fire-breathing conservatives who, instead, are wide-stanced in matters of erotica for pay. That part of this Spitzer tryst only, I grant to the mutton-heads of network hegemony, is suprising.

In full disclosure, let me state I'm a former (and distant) acquaintance of the Suozzis and the (soon-to-be former) Gov. Spitzer beat that proud family's current scion, Tom, for the 2006 Democratic gubenatorial nomination. That said, anyone who didn't sense such a hyper-morally indignant figure as Spitzer couldn't be rife with internal perfidy, should go to the short bus school pickup for lack of human insight. They might want, as well, to brush-up on the even more schizophrenic spectacle, two generations ago, of Roy Cohn travelling from McCarthy hatchet man to alternative lifestyle poster-boy while playing upon the British ruling class' then penchant for mixing homosexual explorations with commie spying.

It is as annoying as all get-out that this motley crew of television flacks plus pseudo analysts are given free fire via cable news networks yet have the palpable psychological maturity of muffin pans. At least, in this case, we might be able to still see some visceral schadenfreude from all those who bristled at Spitzer's near walk-on-water tactics for the past ten plus years as they are asked to comment on today's fall of the Governor. If we're lucky, one will crack and openly voice something in the vein of nothing being so satisfying since watching the Fed tapes of Marion Barry hassling his connection for a better deal or a cherubic Billy C. fessin' up to his advanced thong appreciation of Ms. Lewinsky's workday attire.

Mr. Gandhi's 'Advanced Political Awareness' seminar will be discussed next week.