The 29^th Tim Fuzzey Memorial MBGO is in the books!

It always starts with a hearty breakfast en route to the venue. (This year, going to Brainerd, we stopped at the Clearwater truck stop – mmm good!) Ostensibly it’s to settle on all the rules and betting games for the tournament. In reality, it’s often the last solid food for three days. 

Current champion lording it over the other players at breakfast. (Not coincidentally, we are always put in a little back room by ourselves away from normal customers and waitresses, like cart girls, pretend to be charmed by our clever banter - thank god we're apparently big tippers!) 

                                

                                                                                                                        

 As an aside, the current champion is also our our current peerless leader whose title is: The One with Total Dictatorial Power or just the "TDP." He is in charge of the whole event and has the power of life and golf death for all participants. (It may not be a fluke that he is a multi time winner.) 

The competition was fierce as always but there can be but one winner. (There is a cash payout through five places but this is America and to paraphrase one D Trump, anyone that doesn’t come in first is a loser. Period.)  So the winner is  . . .

                                                                               

                                                           Giving new meaning the phrase “old friends”-

                                                             Pass the Depends, boys!

(Golf pictures courtesy of Thomas Hansen, Esq. self-described "last honest man in America." A dubious distinction perhaps but worth noting.)

But let’s talk about me first.

Although I didn’t win I did put in my usual feeble effort and ended up about middle of the pack – more or less. Of course, I would have done better if my back wasn’t sore. Also, I wasn’t given enough strokes for my handicap. And geez, was it was windy! It didn’t help that I lost my lucky ball marker. In addition, several times I'm sure I heard guys laughing and talking in my back swing causing some severe mis-swings. (Oh, they apologized but it can’t be an accident if it happens every time, right?) Despite these very difficult circumstances I am able to hold my head up high and as an American say, “I was a victim!”

Helping to take the sting out of my disappointment was the discovery of what really happened to Elvis . . 

Who knew he would be hiding in plain sight at Zorba’s in Brainerd?!

(And we we had to stay up really late to discover him - almost 10:00!)

Golf is a very difficult and intimidating game; it’s expensive, frustrating, time consuming and ultimately, impossible to really like. Why then, you may ask, in the name of all that’s holy would we do this for 29 years? The answer to that is very complex but here goes.

First, because a would be golfer can buy fancy golf clothes, nice clubs, expensive balls and look the part of golfer without exercising or having any actual athletic ability. Then, the secret is to play with people who are much worse than you (and, of course, give them unsolicited and incorrect advice) and/or simply stand around in the club house or near the practice green but never actually play. 

Found in the men's room at the Preserve golf course . . .

To quote good, old King James . "Only stopping for short tymes and wiski, Such are the very odd way of goffers!)

Also, one of the true draws of golf – not unlike that of bowling, horseshoes or curling– is that it is a sport that you can drink while doing. Think about it: good shot or bad you can knock back a beer and even puff on a cigar. I mean, come on, show me some hockey or basketball jock that can get away with that! (Not to mention that all these old farts that try to keep playing those actual sports are simply knee replacements in waiting.) In addition, golf is a sport that you can play until you’re a freaking hundred (if you don’t mind being unable to hit the ball out of your own shadow and running into the woods to pee every 10 min’s.) Unlike bicycling, or jogging or other activities that require . . . actual activity, golf is a gentleman’s game; it’s a social sport where you can leisurely discuss important issues like where to go for dinner, the price of vodka or the goofy, high white socks and cargo shorts on one the other players. (Condescension is one of the true skills sets required in golf.)

The local MENSA club meets at the Bar Harbor every Tues night. (They asked us to leave.)

I should add here, before we salute the new champion, that while we have been plugging along for 29 years, it hasn't always been the same cast of characters. In fact, only three of us have been to all the events. (More stupidity than persistence.) Some have been with us for twenty years, some for ten; our new champion has only been with us for two years. We were once almost exclusively air force buddies but really the only criteria now is that you must play golf, be willing to listen to the same dumb stories every year, have no tolerance for assholes, be kind to grandmothers and dogs and, if possible, drink. Our new champion fits the bill nicely with all but the last - like the Republicans, we truly are the big tent party!

So here you go:

The 2015 champion, Don Asay - nick name “Old Cheater” - presenting the prestigious Fuzzey Cup to the new 2016 champion, Steve Funk  henceforth known as the “New Cheater.”

(Old Cheater may be smiling but he's crying on the inside)

New Cheater squeezing into proud blazer (we actually have two blazers in order to accommodate golfers who, shall we say, have more full figured dimensions.) 

NOTE: A certain member of the group, one Jerry Norton, was so confident that he would win that he was stunned by the outcome and demanded a recount of all scorecards and review of the rules (setting back our lunch and departure.) Sadly, for him, he still came in second. This is in contrast to the fine fellow, Brian Arcari, who came in 3rd, graciously accepted his cash and went home without a peep.

So that's it, golf's Fifth Major is complete for the year. Preparations are already underway for next's years event. We have been assured by the TDP that next year, in honor of the 30th annual MBGO, there will be a number of surprises.

None of which could possibly be greater than if I were to win.

Most importantly, here's to hoping that everyone is both willing and able to make it. I can't stand the thought of losing another friend - we're too young! 

Special shout out to one Richard "Big Stick" Severson and his very tolerant wife, Gayle for putting up a few of the knot heads at their palatial estate on the lake. YTB!

(BTW, sorry about the fire damage, I swear to god we didn't know tequila shooters would explode like that - Denny and Curt will send you a check for the damage. Can we still come back next year?)

New Guests to the site please feel free check out my other posts here, you might like the New View Askew - and always feel free to offer comments, it's what keeps me going!

   I Hate the Night

      

How do you feel about night? I mean nights in general; you know when you are supposed to be sleeping. Personally I’m really starting to hate it. Night, I mean. I don’t like the way it steals a part of the day. I don’t like how quiet it is. I don’t like how long it lasts (no matter how short). Most of all, I don’t like how it changes my outlook on damn near everything; night is just mean.

I’m sure some of this is a function of age. It is the rare night that I sleep all the way through to the morning (whenever that is) and so say most of my friends. Yet there is something different to my dislike. I find myself waking up almost every hour to check the clock. I am convinced that it is because I want to reassure myself that it is actually passing by and sunrise really will come. Or perhaps this too is actually related to age - and to the unsettled thoughts that come with it. For example, the slowly closing door to the future that appears to us as we get older.

When you are younger there is always more time to do the great things that you are destined to do. Night time and sleep are just that brief respite you need to recharge in order to go out the next day and defeat the world (sleep like a baby?) But when you get older maybe it becomes obvious that the world is actually up on you in points and worse yet, you are unlikely to overcome that lead. Now the night becomes that awful, quiet place when the world is allowed to mock you and tease you and belittle you for how small your life’s accomplishments are compared to the dreams of your youth. And you’re tired in the morning to boot.

So perhaps all of this mumbo jumbo is really nothing more that the little matter of mortality. The saying “I can sleep when I’m dead” is kind of cute and funny when you’re young. It takes on a whole different meaning as you get a little closer to sleep’s Big Brother.

Pass the Advil PM! 

Cliché Alert - Thoughts on a 50^th High School Reunion

                  

                           My God he was a handsome devil – what the hell happened?!

 “Old age is a terrible thief. Just when you’re getting the hang of life, it knocks your legs out from under you and stoops your back. It makes you ache and muddies your head . . .”

From a terrific (but terrifically depressing) book, “Water for Elephants.”

I would add that it also puts a face in the mirror when I shave that does not resemble the guy in my mind.  Perhaps that is what makes something like this reunion a little bit sweeter, though, because we are all in the same boat. In this celebration we still see in each other the handsome young stud or lovely girl from our graduation day.

I think most people attending reunions – and especially one as august as a 50^th – have some trepidation. I mean many – most? – of the people you won’t have seen for 50 years. Literally a lifetime has passed and thus we're strangers - and what do you say to strangers? Our lives have generally been lived in isolation from each other with totally new memories and experiences that have shouldered out those from the mere few years we spent together in dreary classes a loooonnnnngggggg time ago.

And of course there were the typical highs school cliques: the jocks, the cool kids, the slackers, the guys that smoked and drank (and these are NOT mutually exclusive) – and then there was the vast majority of us who were the unrecognizable rabble. (Okay, I was a minor jock but apparently best remembered as a smart ass – who knew?!) Now the slackers may be doctors, the jocks chubby cab drivers and the cool kids are . . . well, still cool. Yet now the simple fact that we are older has sort of removed any walls there might be between us.

                                             Oh who knew they'd take pictures?!

There is a sweet symmetry to life that you come to understand when you go to one of these affairs. It was my great pleasure, due to the odd seating arrangements, to talk with several people I simply did not know in school. Not surprisingly, their stories were my stories; loves won and spouses lost, children grown, aches and pains and dedication to grandchildren . . . or their pets. (Speaking of grandchildren, I am ashamed to admit that I was pleased that I’m not the only one with my nose pressed up against grand parenting window, outside lookin' in.)

Monsieur Teeson’s ceremony honoring the vets among us was a highlight and a very poignant but heartening moment. The fact that such a large majority of the guys in our class served probably shouldn’t be a big surprise since we graduated during the heart of the war in Vietnam but it was instructive nonetheless; right, wrong or indifferent when called, we answered. (And one who didn't took the most honorable path open to him and I told him so to his face.) I’m just sorry that there were only 3 or 4 air force guys and all those grunts and swabbies. (Marines don’t count. No, literally, they can’t count, that’s why they are such great guys to have around in a fight!)

As if we really need one, the bulletin board with the names and pictures of the 45 classmates we have bid farewell to was a sober reminder of our fragile mortality. I knew most of them and one was one of my best friends to this day. It is obvious that it came far too soon for them but reminds us that there is no guarantee that there’s a tomorrow - so get out there and live it up! In any event, 45 seems like a pretty hard hit to a class to 266. And I guess it won’t get better, huh?

My only and biggest regret is that a weekend is not long enough to catch up with all the people whose lives, rich wonderful lives so different yet the same as mine, that wandered off from the same starting point but along different paths and then come back together for this brief point in time. Damn, there’s so much more to know about each other!

                                          Snow on the roof but fire in the furnace!

I posted a picture prior to the reunion of some class that celebrated their 50^th quite a while ago, tongue in cheek wondering if we would look better than them. You know what? I don’t think so but you know why? Because I’m pretty sure that they got up in the morning and were still seeing their younger selves just like us – they just had different clothes. (Of course, they weren’t nearly as good looking as us to start with either!)

I’ll close with this from Lizzy Rain’s song, “Any Fine Sunday.”

“We’ve lived and we’ve thrived; we’ve gone and survived. And, it’s so clear that it’s good to be here where there’s nothing like living through your fears, there’s nothing like friends you’ve known for years. I’ll meet you on any fine Sunday.”

I’d be proud and happy to meet any of my classmates on any fine Sunday - and hope to see you in 2026 (ugh!)

(And yeah, Lizzy Rain is my wife.)

NOTE: Class pictures stolen from classmates who were smart enough to take them.

Music - The Business, Anti -War Songs . . . and Hope

Mrs. Dear Leader and I were chatting over a delicious meal grilled by yours truly the other day and guess what? Apparently I’m not a great griller! But I digress early.

                                                       Mrs Dear Leader aka Lizzy Rain

Said Mrs, aka Lizzy Rain, is in the studio working on her third album, High Tide, the first in 6 years and it’s going to be the best of three great albums! So obviously we talked about music and the music industry. Or what passes for a music industry today. That is to say that it sucks. Like just about everything else that it has touched, the internet has totally disrupted the music industry as much or more than others. 

Recording artists have pretty much always been essentially indentured servants to the music companies. The only thing that has changed now is that the artists are indentured servants to technology companies e.g. Apple, Amazon, Spotify, Pandora, etc. Oh, there is one thing that’s the same: the artists still just receive a few pennies for each song while the Big Boys skim off the rest.

Assuming that you like music, we are really lucky that musicians love what they do so much that they are willing to subject themselves to this system (where everyone thinks that musicians should work for free.) Sheesh.

What the  !*&@ Happened to Our Soul?!

As in any conversation with me it usually wanders off task early (and often.) So as we were talking I had to bring up something else about music that has bugged me for some time: what the hell ever happened to anti-war protest music? I mean we have protest music for just about every other societal ill today but nothing about war? Really? After 15 years of war? Huh.

I grant you that those of us who came of age during the debacle that was the "Vietnamese Conflict" (and a few of us that had our butts dragged over there) were exposed to some of the best anti-war music ever done. (As I think about it, maybe it was the only war that had anti-war music. Hmmm.) In any event, I find it shocking that we have been at war for almost a whole generation and there have been so few mainstream (essentially none) anti-war songs.

Where is the modern Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young (Four Dead in Ohio)? Or Edwin Starr (“War, What is it Good For.”) Or Creedence Clearwater (“Fortunate Son.”) And we mustn’t forget Country Joe and the Fish (“Fixin’ to Die Rag.”)

Try one of these:

Fortunate Son

Four Dead in Ohio

Clearly something has changed. So was it just our generation that thought that war was stupid? Or was it just THAT WAR that was that dumb? (Hard to imagine given what a horrendous waste our current wars have been.)  A darker thought is that because these wars have been fought by the so called “all volunteer” military, no one really gives a crap anymore – hey, it’s not MY kid fighting and dying!

Or maybe it’s just another aspect of the modern music business (and modern big business in general?) Anything that’s anti-war might upset the people and hurt profits – and we wouldn’t want a few thousand lives to interfere with business and profits now would we.

Maybe There is Hope . . .

To end on a very positive note, it's been my good fortune to watch the songs of Lizzy Rain’s new album evolve and it's been a wonderful experience - they are terrific! She's one of the greatest musical story tellers that you have ever heard. So good in fact that they make even a curmudgeon like me happy!

(Stand by for more information on her project later this fall.)

McMasions and Dog Poo Apps – hmmm.

It’s why I read the paper, to see just how many ideas it gives me to write about.

Today there was an article about large – McMansions? - homes not selling very fast at all especially when compared to less expensive homes. What is the surprise in this??

I am always shocked when other people are shocked about developments that were pretty obvious to see coming. I have been predicting for years that if you own a large home that you don't intend to live in until you keel over it might be best to vacate sooner rather than later. Everyone should have seen it coming. With a slower growing (and faster aging) population and a much smaller group of people with the income to purchase these big homes - especially in the distant suburbs - the future was not going to look like the past. (A lesson we continually seem to need to relearn.)

As noted by much smarter people than me – which is most – the trouble right now really is out in the suburbs. You can sell a complete dump for 500k in a desirable part of Minneapolis or the close in suburbs but I think this too shall pass. There really are only so many people that will be willing to pay 500k for some joint that happens to be near light rail and 200 cute, new restaurants. It’s a declining demographic - and that’s a good thing!

The fact that we continue to over inflate the value of a possession that is just supposed to be a place to live in only makes life more difficult for our kids and grandkids. For their sake I hope that everyone gets saner about this home ownership thing than we were - and refuse to go along with the housing - industrial complex siren’s song. (Not to be confused with the healthcare - industrial complex or education - industrial complex.)

Finally, no, I didn’t forget the dog poo app. It should be obvious that many of the current and future potential buyers are not going to be terribly interested in the time and effort of keeping one of these behemoths running. As more evidence of this I offer the recent article about a dog poo app that’s coming out. A dog poo app; a smartphone app to get some poor Uber-like sap to come and clean up your dog’s business (No, unfortunately I'm not kidding.) Does it seem likely that people that are too lazy to clean up after their own dog will be interested in mowing and clipping and cleaning triple garages?

Of course they could hire all those things too but that kind of cuts into on their foodie and craft beer budgets.

C’est la vie.

(More on foodies, beer snobs and coffee snobs later when I stop crying about the dog poo app.)