Golf Balls for Angels

There are three kinds of people who find their actions worthy of landing them on these pages. The first, and most common, are those amongst us that have an isolated incident brought about by a momentary lapse of reason. In many ways these are my favorites, because if we are honest, all of us fall into this category, and have found ourselves in ridiculous or embarrassing situations. The second group are those that have an isolated incident, however, it quickly becomes obvious that they have spent a lifetime preparing for such a moment, and clearly the next embarrassment is lurking around the corner. Finally, there are those that are born into the role. The incidents not only aren’t isolated, they aren’t brought on by an accident or even major brain malfunction. They are simply the normal course of life for these select few.

A perfect example recently stumbled across my radar screen. A California man was arrested for scattering over three thousand golf balls in a National Park. Now one can almost concoct a rationale story for such a seemly random act with a little effort. If your property abutted a National Forrest, and you had a never ending supply of golf balls, an open field or forrest might seem like a natural location for a homemade driving range. Not very bright, but also not up to the standards required to be accused of squirrel hunting with bazookas. Alas, recall that this person was singled out because he was born to create moments such as this.

Any possible explanation, or at least sane explanation, falls apart when you learn that he didn’t hit the golf balls into the National Park - he threw them. We’re now clearly plowing new ground, because it takes some thought and preparation to take the same irrational action three thousand times in a row. Taking some artistic liberty, I like to imagine this critical point of the conversation with the Park Ranger.

“Sir, why would you throw three thousand golf balls into the park?”

“To honor dead golfers.”

Perfect. That kind of logic makes my day. I can almost imagine our subject bewildered at the Ranger’s inability to grasp his noble logic.

I fear that the powers to be are considering a fine or jail time; however, what they really need to do is let him go about his business while secretly following him around with a camera. This guy was made for reality TV, and I can promise that this won’t be the last time he does something that makes perfect sense to him that makes no sense at all. Make his punishment to donate his time at a driving range or pick up garbage at the park, but please, no jail time. These characters are harmless, too much fun, and too rare to lock up.

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Cannon Fire

Occasionally, an article is written with such a compelling lead that I force myself to ignore the content and sit back and ponder the possibilities. Not because I don’t want the information, (although most such headlines tend to be followed with meaningless dribble), but the title strikes such a peculiar chord that the words that follow can’t possibly live up to what’s in the bold print, and reality can’t approach what my mind has conjured. It needs to be savored like a fine wine, not gulped like the cheap beer on tap at the nearest frat party.

All of this leads to a headline that just keeps getting better because my imagination has now assumed control.

PA. MAN FIRES CANNON, HITS NEIGHBORS HOUSE

Since there is no possible logical explanation, I feel that I have the liberty to be unbridled in my interpretation. Let’s start with the ingredients needed to create such an event:

Ingredient One: The star of our story needs a cannon. Not a toy cannon, not a replica of a cannon, not a model cannon, but a battlefield quality cannon. Going even further, based on the fact that it was indeed fired, it needs to be a fully operational weapon.

Ingredient Two: If the cannon is going to be fired, it needs to fire something, and based on the subtitle mentioning civil war vintage where many of the weapons were still antiquated, we are free to assume that a traditional cannon ball was utilized.

Ingredient Three: If you have a cannon and cannon ball already in your possession, logic dictates a supply of black powder.

Ingredient Four: Let’s face it, we need the guy in this story. There just aren’t a lot of people that can string together the ingredients and thought process required to blow a hole in the neighbor’s house with a civil war vintage cannon. Now that I think about it, this might be the only person with such a resume.

The next consideration is trying to determine if the event was intentional. Even after the necessary four ingredients are in place, we still don’t have a hole in the neighbor’s house. There is a series of unavoidable events that have to take place:

The cannon has to be pointed at the neighbor’s house.

Gun powder has to be added to the cannon.

A cannon ball has to be inserted.

The fuse must be lit.

The only thing that could make this story better would be if it truly was unintentional, which would require the above list to all take place by accident.

This leaves us to consider the conversation between our over zealous civil war enthusiast and the home owner.

“Sorry about that hole in your house, I tripped over the hose and accidently threw the gunpowder and cannon ball into the cannon. The only way that I could get them out was to light the fuse and didn’t realize that it was pointed at your house.”

“Are you some kind of idiot?”

or,

“Sorry about that hole in your house, a goose flew over and I didn’t have my shotgun so I tried to bring it down with my cannon. Apparently, my shot was a little low.”

“Are you some kind of idiot?

or,

“Sorry about that hole in your house, but your dog took a dump in my yard so you had it coming.”

“Are you some kind of idiot?”

By not reading the article the possibilities are endless.

The final thought that leaves me with a smile is that someone spent years dutifully studying journalism in one of our finest universities with noble aspirations of bettering society only to be assigned to this story. I can almost hear them leaving the editor’s office and muttering, “are you some kind of idiot?”

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A Life Of Crime

Last week a bank was successfully robbed in La Jolla, California, that has forced me to consider how simple pulling off such a crime can be. Not that I am actively considering a change of careers to adopt a life of crime, but it does appear that it can be pretty easy money if you select the right bank.

For starters, the police reported that it was unclear if the robber had a weapon. Unclear? Somewhere during this episode shouldn’t there have been a weapon flashed? How about the threat of weapon? No? As the story goes our dangerous criminal simply handed over a note demanding money without so much as a single threat.

Still, we have to give our robber a break. In his condition it would have been difficult to carry both a note and a weapon. He was described as a well dressed elderly man with an oxygen tank and mask. It’s pretty clear how this guy slipped away undetected and melted into the city streets. How about we chase this guy down. Anybody? Anybody? Seriously, he had an oxygen tank under one arm and a bag of money in the other, how dangerous could he possibly be?

The final note that I found humorous was that he escaped with an unknown amount of cash. Really? Take the amount of cash that your balance sheet details that you have, then subtract the cash you actually have. What’s left over is what our superman escaped with. The only way to not know how much was stolen is to not know how much cash you are supposed to have. Seems like good information for a bank to have.

So, there you have it, the keys to identifying a bank to rob:

1- Hand them a note and they present a bag of cash. Think of it as a withdrawal slip.

2- Appear to be physically incapable of bank robbery so that they give you a head start with your escape.

3- Pick a bank that doesn’t know how much money they have. That way they can never be completely certain that anything was stolen giving your attorney a ready made defense.

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The End of Youth

What few shreds of my youth that remained in tact were recently unmercifully buried. Not that there are many left, (probably fewer than I acknowledge), but there are certain parts of everyone’s youth that remain sacred. More accurately, should remain sacred.

Admittedly, I pay very little attention to what is consider “in,” be it music, television, clothes - well anything. Part of getting older is realizing that such a concept is little more than the noise of life. To be honest, I find most of it painfully uninteresting. As such, it really shouldn’t be able to effect me in any negative way. Yet, it was pop culture that delivered the painful blow.

Now I understand, and respect, that everyone has a right to make a living. Having raised three children, there are certain financial realities from which one cannot entirely escape. Even the man who gave us “Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars” later released “Let’s Dance” to help pad his bank account. Still, there are limits - at least there should be. James Dean would have never introduced his new line of jeans at Walmart. The Grateful Dead didn’t add a disco set to their concerts in an effort to stay relevant in the late seventies. Miles Davis never tried to reach out to the Kenny G fan base to gain accessibility. The Rolling Stone remained above the latest fad……..

That was until last month when the iconic magazine made the philosophical leap and put the Jonas Brothers on the cover. Not that I have anything against boy bands, their smiling faces and cookie cutter hooks have been captivating pre-teen girls since the days of Pat Boone. They will always have their place; it just won’t be anywhere near my place. Had I missed something? Apparently, yes. Admittedly horror struck, I leafed through a copy and felt my youth crushed. Icons of bubble gum pop, endless fashion advertisements and the occasional political article that came off more self-indulgent than thought provoking filled the pages.

This magazine didn’t cover what was cool, they defined what, and who, was cool. This is the same magazine that didn’t put Aerosmith on the cover until after their third platinum album because they were worried that they might prove trendy. The Jonas Brothers, seriously? Who in marketing decided that the future of the magazine was to capture the kids watching the Disney channel?

The Rolling Stone of my youth had a defined place. Not just in culture, but even on the magazine rack. I stood for a moment, then did the only thing that I could; I placed my copy of the magazine next to the teen magazines where it now belongs.

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The Big Day

My sister recently attended a wedding reception for a neighbor that can only be described as a bit different from those I that normally attend. For starters, my sister has lived near the couple for many years, and until she received the invitation, didn’t realize that they weren’t already married.

The tone for the reception was established as soon as she entered the Moose Lodge. While a carefully crafted archway over the entrance can hardly be considered innovative, constructing one from empty Budweiser beer cans is an approach I was unfamiliar with. I can only guess that such a welcome of stale smelling cans becomes a reasonable alternative only after the wedding party has consumed the requisite amount of beer to generate the required building blocks. At that point, a lot of things suddenly become good ideas.

Once through festive archway, the theme of the wedding became abundantly clear. The happy couple had settled on camouflage for the color theme. Even the blushing bride had camouflage finger nail polish and elbow pads. The bridesmaids were featured in white tops and camouflage skirts and the groomsmen - well it was too late by the time she arrived to catch them in full attire - were at the bar still wearing tuxes, however, had shed their shirts and were bare chested.

Before anyone begins to categorize our newlyweds as being on the less cultured side of the bell curve, I would ask that you visualize the final scene in our story. Well into the reception the bride, who had been absent for a prolonged period, happily entered through the back door with a fork in one had, an oven mitt on the other, and with a big smile thanked everyone for their patience and announced that the pork was almost done. To be sure, the bride preparing her own food at the reception while still wearing her wedding dress won’t suddenly propel one into the social elite; however, I would ask you to note the most important part of our story - she was smiling. Her reception was everything that she wanted it to be, and was thrilled with the outcome.

Consider that while recalling all of the over-orchestrated insufferably boring weddings and receptions that we have all been sentenced to endure. The father of the bride stands in the corner throwing back drinks while suffering chest pains as he doubts if the marriage will last longer than the payments on the second mortgage that was required to fund the spectacle. The bride, who has spent the last month making life a living hell for everyone around her as she juggled the hundreds essential details required for the day of her dreams, has spent the day vacillating between tears and anger as she faced such unforgivable catastrophes as runners that wouldn’t lay flat, pink flowers that were clearly mauve and champaign bottles not properly centered on the tables. Cultured? Yes. Fun? No.

For me, I can only hope that one day I am fortunate enough to arrive at a reception hall and be greeted by a Budweiser arch. As for those of you still to plan your big day, go for the day that leaves you with the same smile as our bride.

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Modern Warfare and Bambi

Regardless of where one calls home, our surroundings relentlessly force their unique perspective on each of us, (despite our self-proclaimed worldliness). The backdrop for those mundane real-life moments is unavoidably colored by the influences lurking outside the front door. The day-to-day happenings of life, what each of us considers normal, or more precisely the lens through which we observe such events, cannot escape the environment that wraps itself around us on a never-ending basis.

I unfolded the daily newspaper and my eyes instantly fell to the lead story which referred to guns, specifically machine guns, and music. Okay, I’m game, I read on. It seems that a local music festival was interrupted by a stray bullet, but not just any bullet, a 50 caliper machine gun bullet. No one was hurt, the show went on with most of the crowd unawares and only a shattered window to show for the excitement. In short, the lead story was that they didn’t have much of a story.

To put the event in its proper perspective, I live in a small town in Northern Michigan, and as such, carry the influences of what rural life brings. In many places the first thoughts that would flash into the reader’s mind would be of gangs, violence, drug deals or some militia group crawling around the woods waiting, and hoping, for an invasion, (admittedly, a realistic candidate in these parts). However, this is where my environment injected itself into my thought process and I turned to my son.

“What are the odds that whoever owns that machine gun has used it to hunt deer?”

“100%,” he replied without looking up from his computer screen.

It occurred to me that if I lived in a place such as Boston, Chicago, or Los Angeles, (let’s be honest - most places on the planet), a story about a machine gun at a music festival wouldn’t typically bring to mind a testosterone filled twenty-something carrying a six pack and unloading on an unsuspecting doe trying to enjoy dinner. For reference, the person hunting deer with a machine isn’t capable of only one bad decision, therefore, would most assuredly embark on his adventure with alcohol tow. My only hope is that he got deep enough into the Budweiser that he lost his patience and decided to empty his gun on the nearest tree and leave the deer for another day. It would only be later that he would discover that one can’t replenish the required ammunition at the local Walmart.

The story may leave those not familiar with this particular brand of logic believing that those of us from these parts are a bit backward at times, and looking back over this piece, that’s an understandable conclusion. However, at least in our case, the only human likely to be shot is the owner of the gun, (sometime after the fifth beer).

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Hunting for Stupidity

It’s important to know if you’re stupid. More precisely, it’s important to know if you’re prone to do stupid things.

Don’t get me wrong, being stupid is nothing to be ashamed of. Personally, if an object has an engine, or for that matter requires a reasonable level of mechanical aptitude, I am well aware that I have entered into my personal “stupid zone” and it is unlikely that playing in such an arena will result in anything but pain. The problem comes about when individuals fail to acknowledge their stupidity, which frequently not only leads one down destructive paths, it invariably leads to the next stupid decision, (back to that later). To make my point, consider a recent news event:

The scene: a police officer was on patrol when he realized that he was the target of a golf ball.

This is a text-book example of needing to realize that you are prone to stupid decisions. If you think that targeting a cop with a golf ball is a good idea, you have entered into the stupid zone on a number of levels:

Unless your first name is Tiger, the odds of you hitting the officer are well beyond your ability to calculate them, (based on what we can already assume regarding your intellectual capabilities).

If by some miracle you do make contact, it’s probably safe to assume that your plan wasn’t thought through in detail and you have left ample evidence behind to convict you of:

Killing a law officer

Assaulting a law officer

Stupidity

If you miss, you are still guilty of:

Attempted assault on a law officer.

Stupidity

At this point, your only hope is that your golf game rivals your cognitive thinking ability, and you missed the officer by such a wide margin that he failed to notice. (Note that being bad at multiple things is your only hope of salvation). However, in this case, the intended shot was close enough to attract the cop’s attention.

If one makes the decision to launch a golf ball at a police officer, it is likely that the situation will continue to deteriorate, and in this case, our subject didn’t disappoint, (please reference above where I noted that one bad decision leads to another, or even more likely, a series of bad decisions). Rather than stepping back and asking ‘what else could go wrong,’ our subject stood in the window and watched as events unfolded. Realizing that he represented the one and only possible suspect, when the officer approached and inquired about the origins of the golf ball, he quickly confessed, (finally a good idea). However, he also provided a clear line of sight into his house, (a bad idea), so that the cop could see his stash resting on the table.

Our hero now has attempted assault on a police officer and possession of marijuana. However, alas, possession has a way of leading to a search warrant, which in this case, turned up a number of mature plants awaiting harvest. The felonies are beginning to stack up. All of this because the suspect failed to ask himself if trying to hit a cop with a golf ball was a stupid thing to do.

I stopped reading the article at this point because it was clear to see what direction this was heading. I have little doubt that “the accused” was unable to stop digging his hole and followed up the episode with a series of increasingly stupid statements to the police and attorneys that eventually carried over until he found himself standing before a judge, who must have been trying to decide if the episode was humorous or a sure sign of the approaching apocalypse.

Robert Fulghum tried to sum up life’s lessons in his book Everything I Really Needed To Know I Learned In Kindergarden, with a list of timeless observations. It’s a wonderful read for those prone to over think life; however, although it probably wouldn’t have helped sales, I can’t help but feel that including Don’t Do Stupid Things would have been a worthy addition.

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