Author: Tim Andersen

My Vote’s for Love
Every Chip Counts
 
June is when the political process starts to get fun. The primaries are finally over. The shoe-in candidates are busy trying to look and act presidential, while secretly preparing to drop the gloves hockey style and attack one other. Can’t you picture Hillary with her playoff beard body checking a helmetless Donald into the boards? Of course he’ll catch her straddling the blue line unable to commit. And so, it goes. Simon and Garfunkel got it right when they sang, “Going to the candidate debate. Laugh about it, shout about it, when you got to choose, either way you look at it, you lose.” Take heed America, I have a write in candidate with experience and no hidden agendas! Did I pique your interest?
 
Our own president, Mike Love, is such a man. He believes in quick meetings, favors red wine, Tommy Bahama shirts and no new items from the floor. He has run unopposed for 11 straight years, no one else want wants the job, with a balanced budget and not a single corruption charge.  His political stock has risen to where several Latin American countries awaiting a coup, have claimed Mike as a native son.
 
His long time Cabinet, no one want these jobs either, will hit the campaign trail running. It is complete with an accountant, a lawyer and to appeal to the younger voters, a webmaster. The wet voters are also well represented by Mike’s thirsty board of directors. “There is no down side to this candidate except perhaps the membership he represents, “Said Lou Badet”.
 
Accepting of his humble grass roots campaign and write in status, Mike has approved a stamp drive at our next three tournaments. Please bring a new, unused roll of US stamps to the pro shop prior to your tee times. Make American great again, Vote Love!
 
The Love 2 Party Committee would like to ask Cabo Nick to refrain from all interviews, photo ops or comments regarding “that” Christmas party until after the election.

Train Wrecks and Tequila
Salt, Lime and Chip

For 17 holes my swing was perfected.  It was graceful, strong and free.  It flowed like two sweethearts on a deserted dance floor, easy and confident.  Every strike was solid, every putt was pure.  It was as if on each hole, the band was playing “Our Song”.  Par and birdie were competing for space on my scorecard. Golf was easy.  Unfortunately, I said this out loud.  The golf gods hear everything, believe me.

The train wreck that followed was of biblical proportion.  It was the Hindenburg, the Titanic and the Trump campaign rolled into one.  Golf Apocalypse!  That French guy who gave away the British Open got off easy in comparison.  Jordan Speith's Masters melt down was a mere slap on the wrist. The golf gods struck with a terrible swift sword. The 18th hole looked like a battlefield by the time I was done.  Scattered over those 375 yards lay a swatch of scorched earth.  It was littered with clubs, man sized divots, shattered dreams and one smoldering temper.

Hours later, sitting at the nineteenth hole sipping a tequila over, I realized the foley of my ways. I popped off.  I was mocking the game.  Red Auerbach never lit up in the third quarter.  What was I thinking?   I should have known better to think I had this game figured out.  The golf gods don’t cotton to smack talk and threat it severely with surprising speed.

Next week when my memory is short and I play again, I will keep my swagger in check and a flask of tequila at the ready.

Ode to Cabo Nick
Chip Up To His Ears

April, as my seven loyal readers know, is National Poetry Month.  There is nothing on earth quite like the PCGC membership in lambic pentameter.  Sit back and enjoy a road trip with Cabo Nick and the boys.

Billy, where the hell is here,
we were stopping for just one beer!

Moon drive toward that red star,
when did I get a tattoo, and who are these women in the car?

Big Cat grab us a map at that last chance Texico,
what’s that you say, we are in Jaurez, Mexico.

My head was fuzzy and under a strain,
Cabo Nick, please, please, explain.

Well Chip, this may not be a good way to begin,
we lost track after ten, he said with a grin.

We decided to take a road trip the very next day,  
I accepted the conditions of your wager come what may.

You bet in 72 hours not a woman I could wed,
so we headed south to my  Mexican Club Med.

I won with very little effort or trouble,
then you yelled, nothing or double.

What good fortune, my new wife has a sister,
that will teach you to pop off, mister.

Tattooed on your arm is Mr. Jurgins, commonly know as Jack,
wait till you see my family portrait inked on your back.

Humbled and hungover, I had to admit to my fail,
by the way, he said, you owe for Mike Love’s bail.

So be careful  if silly wagers you should make, 
know the rules and what’s at stake.

Never bet with the guys who are smooth and slick.
the house always wins, unless you are Cabo Nick.
 

Saints and Sinners
By Holy Chip

The banner flying above the grill looked well worn and a bit tattered, it read First Annual Saint Patrick's Day Open.  It seemed innoucous enough, a religious group having a charity event. My only real concern was if I could find a seat at the bar.    

Inside the bar it looked like a costume party as everyone seemed to be dressed in period clothing.  I found a seat next to a man in a flowing robe, Nike golf sandals, a Notre Dame visor and a Ping shillelagh.  I introduced myself and said, Pat you throw quite a party.  He said, the "Open", mine was first, has grown to the point where we now have a waiting list. He saw my puzzled look and said, Oh the sign. I'm Irish, so I'm cheap, plus I can get another forty years out of that sucker.

I said, the costumes were a nice touch.  "Chip, he said, those aren't costumes, Hell, pardon my French, these are their work clothes.  Take a closer look at these people and you will be surprise."  I did, and then it hit me.  This was not an ordinary golf tournament.  He explained that it started out simple enough, a few guys from the office getting together for a little golf and fun. "It got old fast, those holy rollers don't gamble, drink or chase snakes, if you know what I mean."  It was sometime after the Crusades and before the Beatles that I had a talk with the big guy about making this a true open. He gave me access to the other side and thus these historical characters.

If you think about it Chip, he continued, these guys aren't much different from your membership.  Take Mosses over there, he has never lost a golf ball in a water hazard, but must be constantly reminded that it is a two stroke penalty for burning a bush.  Pat, you seem to be heavily represented by one side. I see bank robbers, politicians, lawyers, where are the good guys.  "You know the old saying, Heaven for scenery, Hell for the company.  I've just taken it to the extreme.  I don't like to play with world events, but I couldn't help myself today.  I put Donald Trump and Hillary Clinton in a cart together without security.  Let the better man win."

We went down the list disecting the games of thugs, muggers, sinners and saints. At one point, I looked up and saw a man with keys and asked if he was Saint Joesph.  No, he told me, that's the devil's advocate, Steveo Desantis.  I shook my head and said I should have recognized the vintage San Mateo Locks shirt.  Wait Pat, isn't that our Mel.  Yes, he said, blushing, she has a heavenly swing and makes a devilishly good martini.
 
Happy Saint Patrick's Day