Category: Columnists

Genius After Dark
by Chip Noir

He looked haggard and stooped at the shoulders when he slumped down on the nearest stool.  Without looking up, he said, "Scotch with  a splash of water, hold the ripples."  The innkeeper  arched a single brow, nodded wisely, and said, "I'll lock up, this sounds serious.  You had better start from the beginning."

Well, he said with a sigh, "I met her on a night when the coyote moon  was waning over the lake on the 18th hole in all of its glory.  The stars bounced gently off the water giving the brisk November sky a timidly translucent glow.  The smell of winter was on the wind, and something magical was in the air.  As if on cue, she sat down beside me.  She was brunette and vibrant and I was instantly smitten.

That's golf silly season, remember, scrambles, four man best balls, and of course Scotch twosomes.  A man doesn't always think straight this time of year."  The bartender, up until now silent, asked what was a Scotch twosome?  "No, it is not the blending of  single malt with double malt.  I think that's a felony in California.  It's a male-female team tourney.  A perfect opportunity to peacock strut without appearing cocky."

You know, he went on, I was somewhat of a ladies man, not in the John Jurgins league, who is, but definitely a genius after dark.  My dance card was full most weekends.  I thought with my abilities on and off the course, this would be right up my alley.  I almost felt bad for ladies, since chicks dig me.  I had visions of women dumping their partners mid-round and lining up to play with me.  It was glorious.

He then stopped his narration, looked up and down the bar and asked in a covert way if the door was locked.  Assured that it was, he said in a sub rosa tone, "She beat me straight up, no strokes needed!"  The bartender filled a second glass, took a sip and replied,  "I  didn't know it was this bad, please continue."  "I was a wreck.  My game went south,  lifeless, limp.    It was like playing the cello with a rope.  All my postering, primping, and dreams shot down by a pretty face and a better golf game."

I guess, said the bartender, this time with both brows arched, when it comes to the silly season, golf and the ladies don't mix.   

Sandbaggers, Hustlers and Euro Trash
by Scared Chipless

Sailing Ships, Gypsys and the Point Spread
by Stepped in Chip

It was a typical dusty, dirty Delta day in August.  The temperature languished somewhere between water's boiling point and the changing room at the Playboy mansion.  The sensible man stayed hydrated, very hydrated.  I, being a sensible man, was raising the third sheet on my personal inner voyage when she sat next to me.  She was just another one toothed gypsy woman in  a two bit town.  It was as common here as seeing the word mom tattooed to the neck of a Carney anywhere else.  We sat silently, her staring into her murky house merlot, and I loading cargo onto my ship like it was  a commandment from Noah.  Strangely, she asked this very peculiar question, "Do you take your cell phone to the track?"
 
I must admit, I was taken aback.  Was this some local code to a confederate to roll me or worse, take a photo with?  I know people with Cher albums and remember the song about these people.  My pause was leaning toward indifference when I finally answered her.  "Of course, how else would I bet on football?"   She instantly lit up with enthusiasm.

"I knew it she said.  Sometimes you can just tell in a person's face."  Her story continued about her methods, strategies and system for playing the point spread.  "I always play the 3D's on Thanksgiving unless Mercury is in retrograde with Mars.  If that happens, Denver won't cover and Detroit and Dallas will lose.  It is in the stars."   She went on and on, I guess gypsy women are no different, about her system and how it never fails.  I was fascinated by her story, but like most football prognosticators, was skeptical.  "I may look a mess, she said, but I'm always right."  With that she gave me some early season advice and can't miss picks.  I can hardly wait for opening day kick off.

Country Music and the End of the World
by Chip Happens
 
"What's up with that get up, I asked incredulously, to an anonymous member on the putting green. You have on camo pants, an orange vest and golf shoes.  Are you afraid of friendly fire or is an intervention needed?"  He told me in no uncertain terms, it was time to stockpile Jack, buy an ice machine and a box set of Merle.  The world is coming to an end and he could prove it.  I took him seriously when I heard country music and hard liquor in the same sentence and suggested we get out of the hot sun and into the bar.
 
Once settled and brimmed with ammo, I began my inquiries.  As we all know, there are only two things that can make a man toe the ledge this way, a bad golf game or a woman. I chose the easiest route, and asked about his wife.  "No, she is not leaving me.  She's happiest when she's miserable, and I'm a major supplier."  So, with an audible gasp, I said, it's your game isn't it?  Have you talked to Dana, our pro?  "It's beyond last rites, he snorted, the world is ending."
 
He explained that the Royal & Ancient was out to ruin him.  In four short years they were going to rule on the legality of the belly putter.  "I cheat legally and won the Open with that thing.  The R&A is going to make a golf criminal class if they repeal these.  The yips will reach epidemic proportions.  Dogs and cats will cease to be enemies.  Golf will become the new wrestling.  Life was we know it won't exist."
 
"Easy Ernie, I consoled, they won't take your Claret Jug.  Reason will carry the day.  For the good of the game and all that, old man."  Satisfied the R&A had the good sense not to ruin the world, Ernie asked Mel to fill his jug, played some George Jones on the jukebox and asked my views on world peace.