What Goes Around

I am a member of a golf thread on a message board.

One of my friends wrote that he felt he was in a dream yesterday.

My reply below:

It was surreal, particularly when you factor:

1. A fantastic leaderboard, with most of the greatest players in the game having a chance., and the kaleidoscope effect of turning the dial to see which one of those players might prevail. It was a large list after Molinari’s Miscue on 12.

2. Sunday at The Masters always, ALWAYS, amps the pressure, which becomes a tangible force ... a lurking, hovering menace that might strike anywhere and anyone at any time.

3. Add the threatening weather, with its capricious gusts, followed, at times, by driving rain, and the uncertainty of when the worst of the weather would strike. One might say that that was overkill in the manufacturing of suspense.

When you care about the outcome of an event, you are an easy target for that suspense. Very easy.

There are people on this thread I know only because of this thread, and how far back we go sharing the hope since 2008 that Sunday would happen again.

I’m guilty of many tedious offerings on this thread (this is another) of what Tiger Woods means to a game I love. I get it that some don’t share my point of view, and at one time, it was a lot more than some that despised Tiger.

There are some who cling to the premise they can like Tiger the golfer, not the person. And they maintained that point of view instead of peering through a more current lens that revealed a man battling his worst enemy — himself — IN PUBLIC — and somehow managed to rise above the worst of himself: his arrogance.

The scandal and the injuries, however, stripped that arrogance away, and slowly, in plain view, Tiger Woods rebuilt his swing and began the long, tedious process of regaining confidence, while also shifting as a person. One could not happen without the other.

If you can’t see that dynamic, and you have no respect for what it entailed, I’m not sure I can help you. I wish I could because you are not grasping the magnitude of what has just happened.

Some will say TIGER DID THIS. TIGER DID THAT. HE’S A JERK. HES A BLAH-BLAH-BLAH.

All opinions are valid, no matter how obtuse or restrictive.

As Dylan said, “I’m not here to argue or judge.” But allow me to suggest that everyone deserves a second chance. Golf even has a special word for it. Mulligan. 

Imagine, though, commentators doing Featured Groups at The Masters …. “I don’t know, Billy, he hasn’t taken his mulligan yet.” As if a mulligan were a Marvel superpower that the hero would employ when the situation warranted.

But that’s in a comic book — a mulligan is an amateur’s denial of reality, a tool in his bag next to his best weapon, which Chi Chi said was his pencil.

The pros don’t have that option. Life and golf are not fair. When you play the ball down in either, there will be adversity. Everyone makes massive blunders, and sometimes, they get away with it. Sometimes they don’t.

Karma casts a large net. It’s also patient.

One could say that karma had a strong hand in creating the mental and physical struggles Woods endured, just as much as it engendered the reward at the end of that long, tedious process of recovery.

Karma, not Patrick Reed, put that jacket on Tiger yesterday.

Changes

I've been participating in a weekend intensive with Shakespeare & Company with 10 other actors, the workshop leader named Andrew, and his two assistants, Kirstin and Lucinda.

The class included several wonderful friends and a handful of new faces and souls, all of whom have shared themselves and their focus with stunning honesty and commitment.

For me, when I am working with Shakespeare's text, particularly his verse, the buzzing in my brain is akin to an outdoor grill primed with coals and a fresh dash of lighter fluid, and the process of that text discovery serves as the match.

Songs by Steve Earle and John Hiatt invaded my waking reveries this morning. Would not call dreams as they were extensions, perhaps conclusions, and most certainly reactions.

Two phrases from Steve Earles' "Ft. Worth Blues" 

You used to say the highway was your home
But we both know that ain't true
It's just the only place a man can go
Where he don't know where's he traveling to.

And they say Texas weather always changin'
And one thing change'll bring is something new.

John Hiatt released the spectacular album SLOW TURNING in 1988. It was the follow-up to his break through, critically acclaimed BRING THE FAMILY, and both records dealt with Hiatt's alcohol and drug addiction, which is a cliche that in his case was a bad tattoo that he struggled to shed.

The chorus of the title song is particularly apt in regard to transition:

It's been a slow turnin'
From the inside out
A slow turnin'
But you come about

Slow learnin'
But you learn to sway
A slow turnin' baby
Not fade away.


In "Icy Blue Heart" from the same album, Hiatt addresses the risk/reward that fuels transformation:

She came on to him like a slow movin' cold front.
His beer was warmer than the look in her eyes
She sat on a stool, he said, "What do you want?"
She said, "Give me a love that don't freeze up inside."

He said, "I have melted some hearts in my time dear
But to sit next to you, Lord, I shiver and shake
And if I knew love, well, I don't think I'd be here
Asking myself if I've got what it takes."

To melt your icy blue heart
Should I start?
To turn what's been frozen for years
Into a river of tears.

The question is seemingly rhetorical. And each eventual answer a personal choice.

My advice?

Go for it.

The Bookshop

This is a delicate gem that takes its time, perhaps in the same manner one embraces the essence of being surrounded by books and having the chance to take a stroll among many dusty pages.

Emily Mortimer is the heart of this story, and she's stunning, nuanced, and steely when needed. Bill Nighy, however, is also on his game, as is the ever-present Patricia Clarkson, playing one of those domineering types that speaks in honeyed tones as she's pouring poison in your beverage.

Google it. Find reviews from national critics you trust.

Or, take my word.

And perhaps you'll discover as I did that this quiet, unassuming film is a keen surprise of an experience.

Americana Finds Its Winter Venue

We (my wife Ruth and i) flew to Fort Lauderdale on January 28, 2019. Then drove down to Key West the following morning in a silver Mustang convertible, listening to many of the bands we'd see perform at Mile 0 Fest in Key West .... sunset cruise that early evening, then dinner at Blue Heaven, a Keys icon created by a chef who began his career, allegedly, at the Carolina Inn in Chapel Hill.

Makes a good story, and that's one of the themes in Key West in my view ....a story is a good story not so much that it is true, but that its telling keeps one's interest.

When you mix Hemingway with Buffett, vast throngs of cruise ship types with crusty locals, as well as  codger travelers who have come south and west for music, food and yee hah ... it's a fine line between Saturday night and Sunday morning.

This was the second Mile O Fest. Program states 60 bands were on the island, performing on 13 stages scattered about, with the prime focus on the new Truman Waterfront Park Amphitheater.

Was told 3,500 tickets were sold to Mile O Fest, but I doubt that many ever congregated at the same time at Truman Park.

Music began each afternoon at 3 p.m. at Truman Park, while the other 12 stages had earlier start times and much, much later end times. One can listen to music almost non-stop, if one chooses.

We took a cab from our hotel at 1:45, to get in line as the gates opened at 2 p.m.

We'd purchased folding chairs at a Dick's in Miami, and they served us well.

This was the second Mile O Fest.

Less than 2,200 attended last year. This year 3.500. Festival organizer now considering two weeks of Mile 0 Fest 3.
For folks like me who love the music of the late 60s/70s, this genre is it right now.

The better bands I saw read the energy of the crowd perfectly with well-timed fast songs, morphing into a pithy number to let us all catch our breath.

I happened to stumble on information for this festival by accident in late September as I was trying to find a release date for Flatland Cavalry's second record, and I noticed the date on their tour link. 

If you are a fan of Americana/Red Dirt music, bands such as Reckless Kelly, Wade Bowen, Flatland Cavalry, Ray Wylie Hubbard, The Band of Heathens, American Aquarium, Mickey and the Motorcars, Jason Eady, Cody Canada, Trampled By Turtles, Tyler Childers, Jamie Lin Wilson, Bri Bagwell, Mike and The Moonpies and many, many more ...

If you enjoy warm weather in winter ...

If you have been to Key West and had a terrific time, or if you have never been to Key West, and sense that it might be appealing..

If you enjoy walking in essentially an outdoor mall down Duval Street, tracing the past, the future and the now at the same time ...

If you like meeting people from all over the world, some of them who dont give a shit about all of the entries above, but give a damn about at least one ...

Then, Mile O Fest is for you.

Eager to return next year. In a big way.

Flip That Switch

Might be

A power forward

Who loafs on defense.

Might be

A thriller

That uses the dark

To build suspense.

Might be 

A centrist voter

Who slides off the fence.

Might be

A Cuevro driver

Who gets everyone tense.

Just a matter of time

Before that ping

Finds its pong.

Before the young king

Finds his kong.

Before a caged bird

Finds its happy song.

Where ya gonna be

When the lights come on?

The Flow

Each afternoon round about five

When the front gate is locked,

The house spirits emerge,

Watching Day-Glo cruisers

Trudge back to the docks.

Then, some ease into the garden.
Others find familiar chairs:

Front porch, side porch.
Some linger near the stairs.

One corner remains open

Until a stocky sort

With a crafted, grayish beard,

And intense, laser eyes

Heads toward his nightly perch.
He’s got a trusty pen and legal pad

In one hand, a half fifth

Of Caldwoods Rum in the other —

A can opener in his back pocket.

Soon, he is surrounded

By a vast throng of mostly

Calico, ginger, and tabby friends

Who dart, meander, scratch and wash

With one shared purpose:

To be close to Papa.

Groucho, the eldest,

Like most veterans,

Knows all he needs to know:

He waits for Ernest to settle,

Then, in one, simple blur of motion

Hops into the lap of laps.

Two of Groucho’s associates,

Perhaps brothers,

Maybe sons,

Tussle near Ernest’s right foot,

While a sister,

Maybe a daughter,

Tugs on the loose shoe-string

Of the opposite foot.

This is them.
Who they are.
What they do.
Forever and key lime
In an evolving paradise.

Yet another conch train

Rumbles past the property on Whitehead,

Heading toward Truman

To take a left on Duval

With speakers blaring.

It's packed with sunburned visitors,

Listening to HE WENT TO PARIS,

The one song Ernest learned by heart

Because it is so true

And so close to his own path.

Each hearing prompts a wry smile:

Ernest knows Jimmy is getting the current laugh.

From time to time,

A nouveau specter

To the Keys

Approaches Ernest on his porch.

“Sir, would you sign this copy.

It would be such an honor.”

Ernest scrawls his name

On the first page of a volume

That only ghosts can see.

Another factor, perhaps,

Why no one reads much any more.

The newbie

Drifts off, 

Clutching his prize,

Gazing back at Ernest

One final time.

“We had our time,”

Ernest says,

Rubbing Groucho’s back,

Whose purr soon rumbles to an island beat.

Groucho shifts 

His focus to the can

Of albacore tuna

In Ernest’s vest pocket.

A casual paw stretches,

Then rests on the shape of the pending treat:

Groucho’s way of reminding Papa,

That, for some,

It’s time for dinner in the Keys.

In the distance,

An Americana band

Has cranked into gear

On the new Truman Park stage

For Mile O Fest,

A freshly minted, Old Town attraction:

What better way to mutter

So long to January and hello to an early spring.

They’re freezing up in Buffalo

While down in the islands.

It’s all about shorts, sun screen

And laissez-faire.

Bands from Texas

And Oklahoma

Remind the crowd 

Of music’s prime purpose:

To connect,

To embrace,

To encourage spirits to soar.

And they do, too.

Back at Hemmingway House,

There’s dancing on the roof,

In the gardens,

On the porch.

Even Ernest

Is tapping his foot,

While Groucho

Eases both paws on his pending can.

Soon, he’ll get that treat

While the sun slowly sinks into the sea.

It’s another night in the Keys,

And if you look close enough,

You, too, can see:

It’s such a fine line

Between what is

And fantasy.

      

50-50

Think about the times

You won. 

And the times 

You lost.

What was the difference?

Did it matter the nature of the game?

Were you confident?

Did you win big?

Have you lost big?

What is winning?

Winning and losing are not routinely 

Cut and dry, or black and white:

Fine lines outbid absolutes.

Mostly, our lives linger in the shadows,

On the border of where

Expectation and Hope rub shoulders,

Neither is out of reach or is accessible.

Bummer, isn’t it?

That most of life is a series of 50-50 balls and calls.
Those moments that can go either way,

And maybe the deciding factor,

As it is with most endeavors,

Is your attitude.

Here’s a convenience store

Psychology test.

You have half a bottle of an expensive beverage,

Or maybe just a beverage hard to find,
Or that you simply crave.
Whatever.

Is it half full?

Or half empty?

Be honest with yourself.

Half-full is one way to accept and deal with the world.
Half-empty is another.

Are you an optimist?

Are you a pessimist?

Why?

And why not?

Do you believe in the power

Of positive thinking?

Or is it fool's gold —

A fake pearl in front of an actual swine.

When you shoot, putt, aim, steer, roll or seduce,

Do you have an image of success?

Is reality pre-destined?

Does free will exist? 

Where can you rent it?

Ha.

One thing i do know is

that process is the result.

Each process is a universe,

A life and arc of its own.

As The Who would say:

I'm singing this note 'cause it fits in well
With the chords I'm playing
I can't pretend there's any meaning here
Or in the things I'm saying

But I'm in tune
Right in tune
I'm in tune
And I'm gonna tune
Right in on you
Right in on you
Right in on you

Running Away With Me Again

Timing is everything, 

Particularly in dreams.

Each of us is a sponge:

Absorbing, capturing, wiping away;

Then rinsing with exercise,

Or a shower,

Or a confession

To remove the stains.

Ah, but they remain

Until we sleep.

Then, and not as often

As one might like,

The vast cavern

That holds secrets

Hidden to the heart

Pulls back the curtain

In patterns and scenes that

Redefine measured random.

Or maybe it’s just my imagination —

Running away with me again.

Sometimes the path

Is paved with billboards

Offering options,

Portals with levers.

Which century?
What location?
What does it mean

That we have this choice?

The future lurks with the past:

Just out of touch.

Slouching near a street light

With a 40s smoke

And a Raymond Chandler sneer,

Someone who resembles Robert Mitchum

Inhales the vision

Of a sultry beacon

In a skin-clutching, 

Flaming dahlia number

Perhaps two sizes small

And about a hundred times too perfect.

He offers her a light, and she replies

with Camel-influenced resonance,

"It's going to be a bumpy night."

Some say they trust in the universe.

Others find comfort in ideals.

History sheds some light,

But not everyone reads these days.

Around the corner

It’s 1969.
A couple in tie-dyed bell bottoms and

Wild hair wave at a kid on a scooter

With an iPhone 10 who

Gets a text from his grandparents,

Hippies from way back when.

Just whose imagination

Was running away again?

Hip-hop Hamilton

Might be

Cultured Stones,

Which might be

The Marx Brothers

On Wall Street.

Whatever gets you through

Makes you more complete.

Peanut butter finds chocolate;

Basil embraces ginger.
But where is Mary Ann?

Still on the island,

Working the phones

Screening calls from 8 zillion guys

Somewhere on the path from junior high

To a motel room with purpose.

Bigger pictures

Come in widescreen,

As do the fantasies

Of the moment.
The clock ticks toward

A brand new year;

A brand new start.

Maybe one that finds

Truth and ethics back in favor;

Maybe one that

Pulls an abrupt halt

To this reign of charlatan terror.
Can I get an amen?

Or is it just my imagination —

Running away with me again?

So, you want to be a rock and roll star

Then listen now to what I say

Just get an electric guitar

And take some time and learn how to play

And when your hair's combed right and your pants fit tight

It's gonna be all right

Advice from The Byrds, as snarky today as it was in 1967. The point being is that while becoming a music sensation might be considered simple, nothing could be more distant from the truth. And truth, these days, is up for grabs, and thus when one has the chance to observe honesty, to breathe it, to enjoy it, allow it to resonate, well ... don't think twice.

The evolution of a young person to rock stardom is one of the many themes that fuel SPRINGSTEEN ON BROADWAY, a show that Ruth (my wife) and I witnessed Christmas night, 2018, courtesy of Netflix.

We were mesmerized. Uncommonly so actually ... for two hours and thirty-some minutes that we didn't move, didn't make a sound, as if to not disturb the performance.

Envy does not come close to the emotion I have about those who witnessed Springsteen's show live in the theatre. Where I would have had the option to clap, tap my foot to music familiar yet quite often deeper, more resonant versions of that familiar, and laugh, and most certainly acknowledge the need to wipe my eyes from time to time to time to time.

I'm certain those in attendance began the evening with anticipation of the tangibly sublime, but soon were transported into the rarest of realms — a shared journey into the mystic.

Even those of us who witnessed this performance via TV, it was clear we were in the company of a legendary performer, one who has crafted a sellable, enduring product and yet remained so true to himself. At first I felt guilty about the cynicism, a default response engendered from the past two long years in the war on facts, compassion and ethics. Still stinging from the latest of the current administration's self-inflicted world-wide disasters, I did not want what I sensed were budding Norman Rockwell sensations to beam me from the grim malaise of now and into a far better place.

But as Bruce Springsteen shared his life's path, skepticism fell by the wayside, and I believed what I felt to be true actually was true. I know Springsteen was not seeking absolution, but what transpired arrived at the intersection of where memory lane embraces confession.

Springsteen's profound love for his parents, Clarence Clemmons, Patty Scialfa, and ultimately his life becomes a tangible force that elevates as it transfixes.

It is remarkable.

If you are already a Netflix subscriber, the "cost" of admission is free ... all that will be taken is time, but even that is at a discount as I'm certain the 153 minutes are the most limber and energetic 153 minutes one can choose to encounter.

Below are three reviews, one dated early in the run, one near the end, and one about the recording.

Consider all of this the water. Up to you if you drink.

Review: SPRINGSTEEN ON BROADWAY Reveals The Artist, Real and Intense

Bruce Springsteen Explains It All

Album Review: Springsteen On Broadway

Back In The U.S.S.R. (Don't know how lucky you are, boy)

This is not shocking. Most reasonable people look at Trump and see him for what he is ... a con-man, career criminal, who opens his mouth or uses his thumbs for one purpose — to sell an idea, that is more often than not a lie.

The pathetic, and again not shocking aspect of this, is how many of Trump's supporters either don't care that their hero is a dissembling crook or don't know because they have one source of media — FOX NEWS.  

Fox News has long been a cheerleader for the GOP. But with Trump, that organization has veered from the sidelines and into the game itself. Sean Hannity, for instance, might as well have a desk in the White House. Every time the phrase "fake news" is used, those muttering those words are trying to reassure their base that the "lies" that such organizations as The Washington Post, The New York Times, CNN, and The New Yorker are revealing in their daily, non-stop stories about the corruption of Trump, his family, and ultimately, his enablers in Congress, such as notably Mitch McConnell and Lindsey Graham,  that those stories are not true.

But reasonable people see the picture for what it is.

Trump defends the Saudi prince, and the first question, considering the evidence compiled, is why.

MONEY.

Meanwhile, the GOP continues its Icarus-fall from reality because it has been torched by an Orange Sun. Climate change, immigration insensitivity and brutality, voter fraud, guns, racist demonstrations,  and highly questionable tax breaks are just a few of the ploys that these enablers have endorsed. They will do anything and everything to keep power.

Trump's ties to authoritarian louts, such as Putin, Kim Jong-un and Mohammad Bin Salman Al Saud are not just appalling; they are the symptoms, if not acts, of treason.

So to paraphrase a time-worn query:

ASK NOT WHAT YOUR COUNTRY CAN DO FOR YOU. 

ASK WHICH COUNTRY IS YOUR DADDY.