Category: Columnists

FaceTime With Santa

FaceTime With Santa
By Recruiting Chip

Don’t kid yourselves fellas, Santa is very tech savvy. He knows all about Facebook, Snap Shot and all those, “honestly honey, I don’t know how I got on these sites. Remember he knows when you are sleeping, so these excuses won’t work. The big man sent me a text, I’m on his speed dial, and he said he is very unhappy with the amount of members on the “Good List”. I quickly gave Chubs an emergency FaceTime call, ready to defend our honor.

He said, “Chip, I expected Don Delbon on the list, he has been a regular since ’38, but why so many of the others? What has happened to you guys? I know the bar is under new management and you all want to set a good example, but it’s been eight months without any fights, arguments or debauchery. I used to open the PCGC file, belly laugh at your antics, recall when I too played reindeer games, smile at John Jurgen’s ability to forget the names of his many dates, then put you all on the naughty list. It was good accounting, you guys balanced my ledger. I long for the days of Moose, Dave Goddard and the sheer volume of the sons of civil servants.”

“Have you guys gone PC on me? Chip, I remember the old days when Cabo would take those “professional” women to the Christmas party, and Big Al’s betting on everything that moved, but this new cleaner image just doesn’t suit you guys. Now, the bar has fruit infused vodka and craft beer served in trendy mason jars. For the good of the game, Chip bring in some rascals, ne’er-do-wells, and some blow hards. Even Bill Feeley, the one time master prankster and pot stirrer has toned down his act. I NEVER thought I’d say this, Chip, but thank god for SteveO.”

MERRY CHIPMAS

En Garde

En Garde
By Cutting Edge Chip

Outlined by the blue gray November sky rides not the four horseman of the apocalypse, but the man with the ascot wielding his rapier-like wit. En garde. Confined by little pond anonymity, efforts are underfoot to bring Chip to a bigger stage, the PGA Tour. Hall of Famers Herbert Warren Wind, Grantland Rice and Bob Stevens make room at your fabled press table for golf’s most unread writer.

The PGA, long the red-headed step child of the four majors, is coming to Harding Park next year. A major at a muni without Chip would be unheard of. The people’s champion of turn dogs, lower beer prices and all things anti-“country club” must be in attendance. My unpaid staff, petrified as usual that payment of any kind may legally incriminate them, are working feverishly to obtain my press credentials.

Imagine after round one, the chagrin of the press conference mediator when he says, next question, you in the corner. Wait, is that a smoking jacket? It has always been my contention these coddled semi athletes need to be asked more probing questions. For example, are golfers really athletes? Take away Tiger, Hale Irwin (football) and Jack (basketball) and I have my doubts. John Daly receives special consideration for his dedication to Bad Decisions and Blondes, only a true athlete could get knocked down as often as he has and still get up. As for the others, they are only twenty something flat bellies with good swings and nice teeth.

“Ror’s, your play today was substandard, is there any truth that you were over served at Molloy’s yesterday? Before you answer that question, remember Jameson is for winners, not whiners.”

“Tiger, you berate the bumpy poa annua greens of Harding Park, its less that tour like conditions and its cool coastal air, do I have to remind you that you grew up on munis? You dominate Torrey and Pebble, both munis and you complain. For the love of golf, man, putt for the people.”

“Phil, Chip Amore PCGC, I understand you have concerns that there aren’t any Waffle House diners within 1,500 miles of Harding and how this might affect your pregame routine. Rest assured, we have over three thousand restaurants and at least one Five Guys Burgers in town. Bon Appetit, big guy.”

At this juncture, I would rejoin the big three, no, not Arnie, Jack and Gary Player, but the writers to discuss my first press conference. Herbert Warren Wind would be the first to chime in by saying, “Chip, while yout ascot screams ‘New Yorker’, your writing does not.” Grantland Rice, swinging his head from side to side, removed his medicinal hip flask and said, “Your brash, my boy and I really like your lead, don’t listen to that tweed wearing pipe smoker.” Bob Stevens, with his gentlemanly manner would break the tie with this summation. “Men, you both have good points, Chip does have a rather unique style. It’s not ‘New Yorker’, but it definitely is not fish wrap either. Golf might not match your talents Chip, have you ever thought about covering pro wrestling or maybe Judge Judy.”

P.S. TIP Big

P.S.TIP Big
By Credit Card Chip

Halloween is fast becoming my least favorite holiday, let me explain. Dressed in my standard Chip uniform of matching smoking jacket and ascot, I ambled into the grill’s lively costume bash. Ghosts, goblins and go-go girls adorned the newly remodeled, but closely resembling the old, bar room. It was a party in true PCGC style, loud, spontaneous and fun.

My attorney, Blue Moon Retainer, was shackled to the bar in a C.D.C. jumpsuit looking lawyerly. President Jason, his skin dyed Cheeto orange was wearing a short sleeve shirt with a blond comb over wig, ranting about his right to bare arms. “If you are well groomed and wear a nice watch, flaunt them,” he said.

Over in the corner, standing guard over his wife was a G.I.Joe clad Ray Yo. When asked why he held Tanna’s had with the “Kung Fu Grip”, he said, “Look around Chip, there’s a lot of predators here tonight.” Isn’t that Big Al and SteveO over there dressed like jackles? Frank Moro in the universal mail order preacher outfit of blue jeans and priest collar, agreed and then blessed the room. The king, Swingin’ Mr. Stevens was holding court on the high top cocktail table with his loyal followers. Rod Wyman yelled from across the room to Levi Fountaine, “Where did you get the fantastic Fig Newton costume?” “Forty years at Nabisco has its perks, my boy”, he said.

I stumbled over Bill Feeley’s Fred Flinstone sized foot and spilled the basket of a pretty Little Red Riding Hood. I apologized with a glass of wine, just as the band began to play a slow number. I took her, and with the aid and wonderment of white wine at work, we began to waltz with wings seemingly over the crowded dance floor aloft on the music. Magically, the others below us seem to disappear. Each new number became “our” song. We held snug in a lover’s embrace for much of the evening. It was when the band began to flex it’s muscles on “She’s Not There”, that our reverie was broken.

I sat Red at a table with a hockey player with an east coast accent, while I went to seek the grape. I returned to an empty table with a bottle of Chardonnay and two glasses. I asked the cowboy-ed Bill “The Web” where they went. In a very passable Texan, he said, “Pards, she rode off with that yankee. He left you a note.” The note read, “Chip, I got the girl, you get the tab. P.S., tip big, the service was excellent.”

I slumped into my chair and poured us a glass. Crestfallen, I asked Bill, if the front of his hockey sweater said wolves? “Naw, he drawled, I warned her about them, this one said New Jersey Devils.”

More Love

More Love
by Protest Chip

Sad sipping recently at The Grill, the very limited brain trust of the PCGC was contemplating Mike Love’s decision to abdicate his 13 year presidency. Jason, Blue Lou, Swingin’ Mr. Stevens and I decided to protest Mike’s selfish act.

Armed with liquid encouragement from Mel and with the aid of Randy’s credit card, we began to march. Radical teachers Frank Moro, Mike Bradley and Ray Yo, held up signs reading “More Love” and “7 More Years”.  After a lengthy hydration break, (health before social activism has always been our unwritten motto) we resumed our march.

A bus resembling the one form the Partridge Family television show arrived carrying twenty Berkeley looking, 60’s dropouts. “Dude, we heard there’s a protest going on, we want in,” their smelly leader said to me. “Is it a march or a sit in? What’s the cause?” As I tried to explain, he grabbed his checklist and began to yell instructions to his cadre of hairy henchmen, then hand cuffed himself to a golf cart. The others circled the first tee box, sat down and tried to smoke the divot mix.

Instantly every fringe group in Northern California was marching and shouting their slogans. The media vans rolled in just ahead of the police helicopter. Chants of “Bring Back Love” and “Beer Here” echoed throughout the back nine. Bedlam reigned.

Out of the chaos, Mike Love stood up in his truck bed, raised his hand, pope like and quieted the crowd. He told the streakers to return to their clothes, the tree huggers to shake hands with the loggers, and the Hatfields and the McCoys to just shoot it out once and for all. He restored order, as he has so many times before, just in time for happy hour.

Thank You Mike