Author: Tim Andersen

Alcohol and Alchemy
by Cocktail Chip
 
It was a simple recipe really.  A perfect blend of alcohol and alchemy.  Pour a delicious dram of stranger with a dollop of moonlight, add a splash of laughter over a jazz soundtrack and let the enchantment begin. Soft breezes to taste.  Hugh Hefner patented this formula back in 58 B.V. (Before Viagra) and it's been working ever since.  That is the story I told the police anyway.  Off the record, I will tell you the unedited version of that night and let you decide.
 
It was a normal, windy October evening at the grill.  The boys, loud as ever, were busy dissecting their earlier rounds and talking trash.  All was right in the universe.  That is,  until she walked in.  To say she walked in would be a personal affront to Noah Webster and his good work.  It was a samba with a bewitching syncopation of wow! She was a raven haired beauty with an impish smile, a playful nature and more assets than the Forbes 500.  As she paused to get her bearings, the membership collectively sucked in their guts. She sashayed through the room towards my table.  In her wake, something magical began to happen.  This poorly designed and ill conceived building began to transform into a cool and chic 40's night club.
 
The bar area became a raised stage with a tuxedo-ed Swingin' Bill Stevens leading an all star band.  Sonic Sid was tickling the ivories, Fred "Where have you Been" Chaipe was on trumpet and Bill Feeley was on percussion.  A large bar area was set up near the back windows overlooking the golf course.  Four barmen were behind the plank, four. Service was good.  Bill "The Web" was running the  front of the  house, and SteveO kept his eyes on the till.  African distance men don't run this well, but enough about business, lets get back to the important stuff.
 
She sat down next to me and ordered something that seemed to boil in her glass.  She was gracious, charming, and when she danced, her feet never touched the ground.  It wasn't long before I was under her spell.  The evening flew by. Sometime around midnight, during Feeley's funky spoon solo on 'Black Magic Woman' she disappeared. Vanished. Poof, she was gone.  
I don't know if the evening was my imagination, bad ice, or some sort of female voodoo, but as I gave the police my report, sitting next to me was Bill Stevens in a tux.
 
Happy Halloween 

For Bettor or Worse
by Dumb Chip
 
It was a who's who of club respectability that morning.  The Roosevelts, Carnegies, and Vanderbilts were filing in, en masse.  Ok, perhaps that is a bit of an exaggeration, but those who had jobs far out numbered the dead beats that were hanging around the putting green looking for action.  A quick count saw two club champs, an Irish legend, a respected lawyer and a legit website operator.  Nothing bad could possibly happen on such a beautiful day, could it?
 
It was a simple wager.  A no brainer, a lock, a Vegas surety, I couldn't lose.  I should have run away from the situation, fast.
 
She was, by Poplar Creek standards, cute (breathing) and apparently felony free.  Her spotless shoes, awkward girlish gait and short skirt gave her the look of an innocent mark.  She challenged me to a putting contest for one dollar.  Her putter still had the price tag on it for god's sake, what was a golf junkie to do, I accepted.
 
A pretty girl at the club is akin to blood in the water to the membership. They swarmed the area like hungry sharks in a feeding frenzy.  They circled the putting green three deep.  It was reminiscent of Sunday at the British, minus the bobbies and the yellow scoreboard.  Soon, Big Al had side bets working.  Biscuit was giving odds at 3-1 against and I began to sweat.
 
It was the uncomfortable seeing your father-in-law with a fist full of dollars at a strip bar kind of sweat.  I was backed into a corner.  Over the pro shop p.a., Jeremy reminded us that betting was illegal.  He also laid down $20 on the girl.
 
I had to man up, didn't I?  With a bit of egging on, I confidently said I would cover all bets.  I guess, humility  is as fleeting as fame and common sense.  So with a bit of a swagger, I doubled the bet.  Ouch!
 
I told myself I could handle a big crowd, large bets and a pretty girl.  I could actually win this thing and breathe again.  Let the reindeer games begin. I never imagined, nor could I ever have expected, what was about to transpire.  Never!
 
She had the same bent over putting style as Michele Wie.  The crowd went wild.  Steve Young, Joe Montana or even John Holmes on a movie set never experienced a roar like the one which echoed throughout San Mateo that day.  Bedlam reigned. Needless to say, I lost to the fairer sex.  She was last seen dancing into a Brink's truck with Big Al. I was hung down in defeat and thoroughly deflated.  The membership was so invigorated by the event, they forgave all of my loses on the condition of a rematch next week.
 
Odds are 2-1 against, call Mike Love to place any wagers.

Vidi, Viche, Vino
by Chip Cellars
 
Vin Scully: Welcome back to Dodger's Stadium and the home half of the fourth.  It's a beautiful night, the temperature is in the eighties, the smog visibility is nearly 200 feet, so there is no reason why the Dodger's hitless streak should go past it's current 30 innings….
 
–NEWSBREAK–
We interrupt this broadcast to bring you the President of the United States.
 
President Obama: "Citizens of the world, I must ask you to pray tonight.  As I speak, an Asian terrorist group has fired two missiles at the U.S.  One is headed toward San Francisco. The other is headed toward Disneyland.  We believe this same group has shut down all electrical power to India, which as you all know, renders our computers here in the states useless.  Our really expensive early warning and counter measure devices won't work without these guys.  (A man with sunglasses and a bad suit approaches and hands the president a phone)  Wait, I have an update.
 
–NEWSBREAK– 
We go now to San Mateo where two men apparently have thwarted the attack.
 
We are outside the Poplar Creek club house with spokesman Gary DeSantis.  Gary, can you tell the world what just happened in there?
 
Gary D: Luckily this attack occurred during Chip Stock, an annual gathering similar to the Bohemian Club, but much more exclusive. The World's Most Interesting Man and Chip actually flipped a coin to see who was going to save California and who was going to choose the beer for the next round.  Armed with only a transistor radio, aluminum foil shaped into a UHF antenna, a corkscrew, and the GHIN computer,(Golf Handicap Index Network) the boys were able to reprogram the missiles.

How did they do it?

Well, continued Gary, they plugged the radio into the GHIN and simply tuned the radio into the right frequency.  The missile's guidance system was no match for the illogical and overly complex handicap system.

Where did the missiles go?

The one heading for San Francisco was returned to sender.

What about the one headed for Disneyland and all those children?

This was a little more of a challenging, as the missile was on the same frequency as an all night disco station out of Fresno. The boys simply rerouted it to a place where it would do the least harm.

Where is that, the ocean, Death Valley, Los Banos?

No, I think it was Chavez Ravine.

Thank God, one last question Gary, I understand the radio, the aluminum foil and the GHIN machine, but what role did the corkscrew play?

Man, (with a shake of the head) they just saved California and all those wineries, do you really think they are going to drink cheap Mexican beer?

Hey isn't that Mike Toomey arm and arm with Natalie Gulbis?

No comment!

R and A and C
by Sir Chip

I was in England recently as a guest of the Royal and Ancient. I was there to accept an award and to evaluate the state of the game from my uniquely American position. I was knighted, long overdue in my opinion, for my life's work in promoting the Ascot and its rise in prominence. In a very progressive move, "The guardians of the game" sought the opinion of a muni golfer with a fashion sense. Of course, they were very careful not to be seen with me, or to allow cameras or recording devices within a 500 meter area of the interview.

It was quite a revealing experience for both sides of the pond. I discovered, for example, that most of these stuffed shirts didn't play the game, had bad English accents and couldn't handle a Windsor Knot or a four in hand without the aid of a butler. It was shocking. Seeing these men and listening to their attitudes helps explain our dependence on the French for a fashion sense. Chip being Chip, I decided to press the issue.

The plaid boys were appalled and chaffed by my direct and bold questioning of tweed, jackets with belts on them, and hounds tooth anything. I still cringe at the thought of Bear Bryant's unfortunate hat. I was rebuffed, of course, with some staunch stares, several, "why, I have nevers", and one, mind your civil tongue, sir, but my questions remained unanswered. Using my new knighthood status, I pushed on. When I declared the oxford to be dead and that it should go the way of the double knit, you would have thought I was driving on the right side of the road. Luckily I brought along Steve Hildebrant, a fashion and security consultant, (they always punch the taller guy first) and we were able to back away from this hostile mob.

I returned stateside, bloodied but not beaten. The Royal and Ancient reinstated my knighthood, after viewing some revealing photos and dropped all charges. For now, fashions will remain the same, but isn't that what you would expect from crowd that favors cut away jackets and tea?

Thank god for the Ascot.