Golf Tip #1

There are two things I can do: I can pick out people with hair augmentation (toupes to implants) and I can play golf. That said, I ve been thinking about writing a series on one of them for a long time. Since I didn t want to offend your sensibilities, I ve written what I hope will be the first of many golf tips. It s a .gif file in a pop-up window. Sorry.

When Not to Cut a Dogleg, I

The preceding came from an actual hole I played today. My playing partner took the red route. I took the green route. I wound up putting for birdie. He s still in the trees.

30 November, 2005 posted in On Golf | Comments (2)


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The waiting room was packed before I got there at 4:30. It was a half-hour before I saw Dr. Tauro, my orthopedic surgeon. He wasn t in a good mood. I heard him talking to a woman in the room next to mine, Well, it s too late for THA-A-A-T now! And then there was some muffled discussion about steroid injections. Not that I was listening.

He was also juggling calls from the emergency room and some other doctor who, it seems to me, he thought was an ass. He walked into my exam room. If you re busy, I can come back another day, I said. I was serious. He knew I was.

No, no. It s alright. We ll only be five minutes.

Tough juggling two things at once, eh?

Try three, and trying to not FUCK any of them up. (Emphasis his; I love when doctor s curse.) I ve got one guy in the Emergency Room with a compound tib-fib fracture; I still have a couple of patients in the waiting room; and I have Sports Clinic tonight

And then we got to my problems. He looked at my chart and counted on his fingers. It s been five months post-surgery (ankle reconstruction/plate, seven screws). How do you feel?

Well, I don t want to come across as a weenie but you need to know how I really feel. When I go into dorsi-flexion (bend my ankle) it bites me at the distal end of my tibia (front of the ankle), about a quarter inch down. It s hurt so bad that it s brought me to my knees three times in the last two weeks, I reported.

He examined my ankle and announced, I hope it s not an osteochondritis. Let s get an x-ray. X-RAY, he shouted and then he disappeared.

An osteochondritis is a loose body in the joint space. I don t think that s good.

I got my x-ray and Dr. Tauro returned with the news. It looks like you have a bone spur (osteophyte) at the end of your tibia. I want you to get an MRI. If the spur isn t on the articular surface, I ll go in there with an arthroscope and shave it off.

He never got around to telling me what would happen if the spur is on the articular surface. But I was left with the impression that that would be bad.

No matter what, I need more surgery.

Son of a bitch.

29 November, 2005 posted in Health and Medicine | Comments (5)


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Link of the Moment, I spose

a softer world

Why not?

27 November, 2005 posted in Internet Stuff


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Returning to the Wild

Chris Whitley, 1960-2005

Breaking rocks all day on the avenue
its hard to unearth anything thats true
soon I am gonna loose these rags and run
Returning to the wild where I m from

There s miles of stone, jack hammer in my hand
There s compromises, I cant comprehend
soon I am gonna drop this jack and run
Returning to the wild where I m from

A week ago tomorrow, November 20, 2005, singer-song writer Chris Whitley died. I know his brother, Dan (he is my brother-in-law) and have met his father and his daughter. I sincerely feel for him and his family.

Chris had one minor hit. In 1990, his ephemeral bluesy-gospely song, Big Sky Country , was played on radios around the world. He developed a strong cult following in Belgium and German. He also earned the respect of many fellow musicians. Dave Matthews said of him in 2001, (H)ow could a talent like his go relatively unnoticed? So few singers have their own personality, and Chris is his own man to the bone. Honestly, I feel more passion for his music than I do for my own. My music I m critical of. But I have a fervent, religious devotion to the magic that Chris makes. , the New York Times , and all have eulogized him, but you might best learn about Whitley by reading his obituary on his own website.

Or, better yet, listen to his music .

26 November, 2005 posted in Family Business | Comments (1)


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Men In Black

Every year at Thanksgiving time, the President of the United States pulls a turkey onto a podium and says he s not going to eat it.

A couple of days ago, Nancy commented that President Bush needed to read from a prepared speech at the Annual Turkey Pardon. She mocks the man. He deserves mocking, as all such men do.

What Nancy doesn t report is that there are actually two trained turkeys, not one. Yes, I said trained . And I said two . Weeks prior to the Annual Turkey Pardon, these two turkeys are repeatedly exposed and even fed by men in dark suits while camera flashes go off.

Your tax dollars at work.

Frankly, I d rather see the thing freak out and maul a dark-suiter or two than pay Scratch that I d rather pay to train the thing to maul men in dark suits.

26 November, 2005 posted in In the News | Comments (0)


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Leaf. Me. Alone.

I have a camera. I have leaves. Maybe I should try something like this .

~a new series by Noah Grey

22 November, 2005 posted in Internet Stuff


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Today s Conversation

It s not painted red, but it s hell.

What s not painted red?

Marriage. It s not painted red, but it s hell.

I never thought hell would have paint.

Sure it does. Satan s office: What color are the walls? They d have to be painted red.

I always thought he d have walls of fire.

Not enough privacy. He s an executive. With a secretary.

Satan is an executive?

Certainly. Nice crisp office. With crome accents and a dark wooden desk probably from old growth forest. Muzak pumped through the corridors and elevators and such.

Hell has Muzak?

Of course. Hey, what do you think the house band in hell is? I think it s The Carpenters.

The Carpenters? What about Gwar or Slipknot?

Gwar and Slipknot are posers. They aren t living the lifestyle; they re just getting rich off it. The Carpenters are real Can you imagine listening to (singing)-

Why do birds suddenly appear
Everytime you are near
Just like me
They long to be
Close to you

- while the flesh burns eternally off your bones?

What about Aerosmith?

Aerosmith is different. That band is a result of a pact with the devil, not the house band

21 November, 2005 posted in Tell Me a Story | Comments (3)


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It s Gay

Do you know how the Boy Scouts don t let in gays? Unky Rich asked.

I always thought the Boy Scouts were a gay organization, I answered.

What do you mean?

I mean, they wear kerchiefs and go to jamborees. And they always sit in circles and rub wood.

You re demented.

19 November, 2005 posted in My Philospophy (more or less) | Comments (1)


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Culture Shock

There s a difference between working for a major cruise line in mid-town Manhattan your whole career and changing jobs to work for a small, privately owned senior housing company in central New Jersey.

The newbie asked, Jim, how do we call the courier to get something to the printer?

If you need to get something to the printer, you are the courier.


Seriously, how do I call the courier?

Seriously. You ARE the courier.

12 November, 2005 posted in Tell Me a Story | Comments (2)


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A Shitty Day

As per my practice, I called the Wife-beast at lunch and asked How are you doing?



Yeh. Shitty. First thing this morning I cleaned shit out of the bird cage. And then out of the cat box. The dog had shit caught in his ass-hairs and I had to give him a bath. At the operative moment, the dog shook and sprayed shit all over me and the bathroom walls. After cleaning the shit off the walls, the baby woke up from his nap. He d pooped. I had to change a shitty diaper that smelled awful.

Now even though every thing is cleaned and I ve taken a shower, all I can smell is shit. I think I still smell like shit.

It s been a shitty day.

I ll buy roses on the way home, I offered.

I don t want roses, she barked.

Not for you; for me! I don t want to be smelling shit all night.

10 November, 2005 posted in Tell Me a Story | Comments (2)


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Five and Twenty-Four

There are only two good ages. Don t try to question me either. I ve thought it through. You can t change my mind.

Those ages are five and twenty-four.

Why five? Why not earlier? Well, up to three-years-old, you pretty much shit yourself every day. That s no good. At four, you re almost there, but your still pretty clumsy and fall for no real reason. You can t spell and can barely count. And, under no circumstances, are you allowed in the refrigerator. You have to beg for all your food.

And sometimes you still shit yourself.

But at five! Oh at five, within your world, you are self-sufficient. You never shit yourself. Sure, sometimes you wet your bed but you can get help if you need too, or sleep on the other side of the bed. At five, you can turn your mattress without waking your parents. Otherwise, you can do anything. If you re too cold, you can get your own blankie. Too hot? You can take your own shirt off. If you re bored, you can open your toy box and get your own toys. Hungry? You can open the fridge or the pantry.

Also, you re in kindergarten. Kindergarten! You have some freedom away from the folks. You re meeting new friends. Eating paste and crayons. Sure it s school. You re learning your ABCs and simple math and such. But the grades aren t real. There s no pressure. No real homework.

Now first grade. That s tough. All of the sudden there s homework and the expectation of good grades. That, for the rest of your school days grade school through college, never eases. It only gets worse and worse. Especially under the pressure of all this stuff getting on college transcripts and your permanent record.

It doesn t get better until twenty-four? Why not twenty-one? A lot of people like twenty-one. I mean, you re an adult. You can party and drink and get into girlie bars or those Chippendale parties. And that s the problem; you re drinking, a lot. And with drinking comes hangovers. One night of fun equals one day of not being able to open your eyes in sunlight or hear anything louder than a mouse fart without almost throwing up. No fun. No good.

Besides, you re probably still in college or trade school (see first grade, above).

Nope. I m sticking with twenty-four. Like twenty-one, you re still partying a little. But you re not getting so drunk that you ruin the whole next day. You re much more responsible with our having-funness.

Most of you are out of college or trade school or getting established in your career. For the first time in your life, you are working a real job and have more money than you ve ever had. You don t have the huge financial burdens that come with big adulthood mortgages, day care, baby formula, Pampers, two car payments, 401k deductions, and on and on.

Nope, you ve got cash and you ve probably got consistent nookie. Think about it, if you re not married, you probably have some sort of long-term commitment. You re not out there trolling the clubs every weekend hoping to run into Mr. Right (or not run into Mr. Wrong) or the next piece of ass. You probably have someone under your arm. Someone you re comfortable with and you re having a lot of sex.

(Mock me if you will, but sex is among Maslow s most basic needs in his Heirarchy of Needs. Right up there with air, food, and water. Don t believe me? Look it up yourself.)

After twenty-four, life gets pretty serious. Most of us are really busting ass establishing a career and trying to figure out how to make money. We re getting married and having children and starting to worry about our weight and cholesterol levels. We have second mortgages and life insurance. Things are getting stressful. This kind of stress doesn t ease up.

Some people say life begins at fifty. Those are trying to make themselves feel better about growing older. They are the same people who are losing the fight against male pattern baldness and ear hair. They are getting facelifts and tummy tucks and plucking out their gray pubic hairs. They are the young old. And underneath it all, they are very worried about the rest of their lives and their eventual, unavoidable death.

Besides, if you groan when you bend over, life ain t as good as when you didn t have to do that. Besides, at fifty, you re starting to worry about shitting yourself again.

07 November, 2005 posted in My Philospophy (more or less) | Comments (1)


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Growing Up

Then, suddenly again, Christopher Robin, who was still looking at the world with his chin in his hands, called out, Pooh!

Yes, Christopher Robin?

I m not going to do Nothing anymore.

Never again?

Well, not so much. They don t let you.

05 November, 2005 posted in Miscellany | Comments (0)


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I m a Sneakers Guy

The Wife-beast is always trying to make me wear sandals. I m not a sandals-type guy. I mean, I ll wear them to the beach but to go out to the store? No way. Not me.

I m a sneakers guy, I tell her.

Yeh, but you re always wearing the wrong socks, she says.

No, I don t.

Green socks?

I m wearing green shorts.

Take the socks off; put on your sandals.

If I start wearing sandals it s one small step away from you not wearing a bra. The next thing you know we ll be going to swing parties, wife-swapping, and waiting in a Denny s parking lot until two in the morning for some guy named Phil to answer his pager and drop a baggy of skunk weed into the window of my minivan. Oh no. Not for me. I m a sneakers guy.

Shut up and put your sandals on.

Yes Dear.

01 November, 2005 posted in Tell Me a Story | Comments (6)


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