Rustler's Renaissance

So …

Once upon a moment

Luck beckons,

Then turns south.

No fire on the mountain.

No gift horse

Or its mouth.

Above the saloon

In a stale room 

One eye on the ceiling

The other on adieu

No one promised heaven

Or even

A damn good view.

Down below

A pack of drifters

Lurks as idle

As muttered threats

Until they hear

The signal

That sets them free.

Dust on the horizon;

Someone yells

Stampede.
Nostrils flaring,

Pistols blaring:

Someone’s burning

Rattlesnake weed.

Running hard

To the river

Where tracks

And sins

Disappear.

As if someone

Willed release:

Taming a hurricane,

A bandit priest.

Then, the hidden trail

To the secret canyon

That no posse will ever find.

In the distance

Near the concealed cabin
A lonesome fiddle

Greets an old companion —

A steel guitar

That had just made bail.

Soon, even the veterans

Feel the urge to dance;

Echoes of Butch

And Sundance

Trading desert jeans

for tailored pants;

Getting primed for

The revolution:

A Rustler’s Renaissance. 

Home

A New Citizen Decides To Leave The Tumult of Trump's America

The link above leads to a remarkable account. So clear and heartfelt. And perfectly tuned to the times.

Who better than an immigrant to display affection and concern for her "second" country, and why she must leave. Hopefully, not forever.

My father was born in Cyprus. He essentially taught himself English. His dream was to come to the United States, which he did and wound up at the University of Missouri, where he met my mother, a student at Stephens College.

At first, Peter G. Phialas anticipated going to medical school, but his aversion to blood and love of language steered him toward a masters and Ph.D at Yale and eventually Oxford in England. He chose to teach Shakespeare, which he did his entire career at the University of North Carolina in Chapel Hill.

A life-long democrat, my dad died in December of 1999, a month short of George W. Bush taking the oath to serve as president of the United States.

Nor did Pete witness the two elections won by Barack Obama.

And luckily, did not have to endure the cruelest and most shocking election in the history of the country, a sketchy, shadowy, if not corrupt, takeover by a con man and his throng of quick-fingered cronies.

But i can hear what my father would be saying. And he'd be saying it often, too.

Thus, immigrant stories that reflect profound love for the United States of America carry special weight for me. Rebecca Mead's masterpiece should be read by all Americans. It's long, but totally worth the effort.

Karmic Gold

A fascinating week.

Omarosa has done more than steal focus. She has injected a fresh dose of hope into the spiraling, evolving, perhaps way-too-optimistic mix. That she is on the verge of trumping Trump with his own tactics is Shakespearian rich — a karmic gold mine spiced with the notion that this version of Lady Macbeth might channel Shylock. What can be better than this form of devious revenge?

If only the current folly was just a dream in midsummer, rather than the nightmare that it is.

At any rate:

Is Trump a racist?

Is he a bigot, a charlatan, a con man, an asshole, a serial liar who lacks any sense of moral fiber?

Are these trick questions?

But in my view, the issue is no longer Trump. It's the vast throng of elected enablers, as well as those who identify themselves as being in Trump's base, where, apparently, myopia has reached crisis levels.

The elected Republicans in Congress who continue to look the other way with each of Trump's attacks on decency are digging a deeper pit for themselves. These folks are not just on the wrong side of history, they are creating it, hook, line and sinkers.

Power above party and most certainly country. That level of arrogant greed does not suggest there is a rainbow at the end of this storm.

It's not a stretch to predict that eventually Trump's incendiary tactics will produce an epic catastrophe. The war on the media, for instance, is a first-rate example of blaming the messenger in advance, that under no circumstances will CNN, The Washington Post or The New York Times tell the truth. If the "news" is anti-Trump, it is fake. And we've been asked by our petulant, orange-hued menace that we should believe him and only him.

Isn't it amazing how Trump's supporters refuse to see this tyrant in his ill-fitting nudie suit for what he is? Hans Christian Anderson must be humming Chuck Berry while rolling over in his grave, eager to tell Tchaikovsky (and the rest of us) the news.

Have you ever seen a human being with so little regard for others, and even less for animals?

One of the more salient aspects of "human" nature is that most of us crave association with a pet, most commonly a dog and/or cat, who give unconditionally and ultimately take so little.

What kind of person despises these engaging, honest creatures? One that likely has difficulty with projecting any of those traits because he lacks them himself. When everything  is scam/sham/thank you ma'am, it's hard to trust someone will "care" for you unless you pay them.

One of the infinite joys of getting to know a new friend, be it canine or feline, is the discovery of its habits that make that "personality" unique. I believe it's one of the most compelling rabbit holes that exist ... because part of that "discovery" reveals as much about you as it does your new associate —  each day you wish he/she could speak as loud verbally as it does with its actions. But the actions are plenty, aren't they? In fact, the actions are the truth.

I find it impossible to trust anyone who despises animals. Trump's well-known disdain for pets reveals just how shallow, heartless, cruel, self-absorbed, and morally bankrupt he is.

i also find it impossible to like anyone who lacks a keen sense of humor.

Laughter and a purring cat go a long, long way to help make a part of what is so wrong just a bit better.

Of course, the genre of pet I'd love to send to the White House is as reptilian as the creature who occasionally stays there when bored with golf and fast food.

The one difference, obviously, is that one type of flesh-consuming carnivore was born in the muck, and has little choice. The corporate upside for an alligator is a "fresh start" as a pair of shoes, a belt or even a suitcase. Not exactly a shrewd career move.

Meanwhile, another inhabitant of the slime craves junk food, over-cooked sirloin with ketchup, and in spite of what he tweets, has no intention whatsoever of either draining, fixing, or even leaving his "natural" habitat.

"Swamp Thing. 

You make my heart sing.

You make everything ..."

Grinding

If you are not a Tiger Woods fan, start typing that weak, snarky sauce now. Or, perhaps, just move on.

Regardless, what follows is my assessment of what transpired last week in St. Louis and in part the entire season in professional golf

Brooks Koekpa won the PGA Championship, but Tiger Woods claimed Sunday with one of the strongest-willed performances of his career.

I think Nick Faldo was on to something about TW’s 64  … that most players would have finished 10 shots higher.

Tiger’s run on the front nine Sunday in spite of missing every fairway was, even if you loathe Tiger Woods, remarkable.

From the first disappointing near-make for birdie on the first hole, Tiger maintained his focus … and only after the wild tee shot on 17, did we see frustration. I’m sure most of his fans at home went into deep funks as that tee ball sailed wide right. While the golf gods of the greens screwed with Tiger all day, the fairway/rough gods were a tad more benign. On 17, the ball was “playable” from the hazard, as in dry and not bellying up to whatever creatures lurk in streams in Missouri.

On the ninth hole, a yanked iron off the tee flirted with OB, then danced down the cart path toward the green, the way a golf ball should behave when struck by an icon. Even better, as Tiger took his drop, and the ball kept bouncing away, he was allowed to place his ball on the hard pan. It took several moments to do that, and here’s a strong opinion — when a Tour pro is given ball in hand, he knows exactly what to do. Amateurs, of course, have more practice, not that it does us all that much good.

Then, the sweeping 9 iron second shot that left Tiger with an opportunity which he cashed in, That was one hell of a fist pump, and the adrenaline flowed. “Oh waiter, another six shot espresso, if you would be so kind.”

Non-Tiger fans are likely wondering — are you gonna talk about this creep all day, and not discuss Koepka?

Yes, I am going to discuss what interests me, and I do have some things to say about Koepka. He’s a hell of a player who finished strong. I hope he brings that game to the Ryder Cup. Happy?

The images of the St. Louis fans that followed Tiger and surrounded the 18th green reflect the people’s choice. It’s an easy one, in my view.

Rewind the film to 2009, when the scandal broke. I suggested then that Tiger Woods see a therapist, rather than a new golf coach to alter his swing. What needed changing was his mind, not his launch path.

Eventually, if you believe in karma, that vengeful, insidious force shadowed Woods until it helped destroy his back. And then the period of time when no one knew if Tiger would ever play again on Tour — his personal Elba (an awkward exile from his chosen form of self-expression.)

Okay, “one” of his chosen forms of self-expression. I know that’s cheap. A Mick Jagger joke. But true.

Tiger might not have had discretion or morals, but he certainly, for the most part, had great taste.

The point is that Tiger did not change his attitude or his behavior when he returned to golf that April after the scandal broke the previous November. His wife wisely bailed, and Tiger moved on. 

I don’t believe Tiger caught up with himself until he realized he’d lost it all. Of course that’s just a guess.  And what I mean by caught up is that realm of self-reflection where you actually catch a glimpse of what a colossal asshole you have been, and how that behavior and sense of entitlement hurt you in ways that you could not fathom. And that what you loved even more than worldly pleasures was the joy you felt on a golf course. 

Golf is one of those bites where you live with the sting. You might take the boy out of golf, but you never take the golf out of the boy.

(I know this personally. I had no idea how much missed even posting about golf on a message board, a habit that returned earlier this year,  And as one thing often leads to another, clubs have returned to my car, and my body is trying remember its golf muscles. 

There’s a huge difference in comeback, and coming back. I’m just a hacker, but golf is in my soul. And for a decade, I thought I was done forever.

While I have doubts about what is ahead, I’m going down with a club in my hands. I love writing about golf as much as I love playing it, and no matter how dreadful I play, I will be grateful that I decided to resume,)

This segues back to Tiger.

One of the strongest aspects of the 2018 season has been TW’s heart-felt gratitude for being able to return to competitive golf. He’s much more gracious now, he chats on the golf course with his fellow competitors, he even gives some fans moderate high fives while trudging from a green to the next tee. Not all the time, but certainly more than NEVER  as it used to be in the glory years.

I suck at predicting outcomes. Like you, I hope more than I know. Keen observers of the golf swing can tell you what is right and what is wrong. Astute observers and healers in the field of human nature can help you understand what is wrong, and how to make it more right. I dabble a bit in both, but I am no expert. 

Life, like golf, is not a game of perfect. Even though that is what we universally share .., that quest of the pure … Anyone can hit a great shot (or act well on stage) when they are ON. Golf (and life), however, is more about how good are you when you are off.

We have no better example than Tiger’s round yesterday. That 64 was will power. And guts. And desire. And if you can’t love how a player can grind with that much devotion and passion, drama and empathy are not your thing.

My strongest hope is that one day we will look back at yesterday’s second place finish and smile …. That Aug. 12, 2018, was the day that WE KNEW … just as Tiger knows. 

Sure. I’m a fan boy. But that does not prevent me from “seeing.”

Is Tiger Woods going to win another major?

What do you think?

Crusty Codger

So where were we going

That we can’t look back?

The river keeps flowing;

It’s a natural fact.

The crusty codger

Dusts off his shoes;

Shakes off the malaise

Tries to find the groove.

Rip Van Wrinkled.

No thoughts of a score.

Easy does it swinging

Those muscles remain sore.

Here it is:

What was was.

Maybe life

Is a comet

Which is why

We circle back.

Or maybe

The path is an orbit

That reshapes

As if defines.
Kaleidoscoping

Into a brand new deju vu.

What are ya gonna do?

Nothing new under the sun

So they say at the beach

With Buffett towels and Coppertone —

As if portable grease

Will hide that pale crease.

Got it made in the shade

with iced tea and lemonade.

Some call it an Arnold Palmer.

No wonder

His army keeps plodding along.