More of the same pouring out of the Gulf. Oil and political hogwash. The only good news is that folks are beginning to see how Soros and the administration set this rip-off up from the start. Maybe now it'll get into the "real" news. It's too long a story to reiterate here, so if you're curious, Google: Soros, Brazil and oil. The situation's pretty obvious as I've written often before, but you can decide for yourself.
Not a lot of blog-time today, lot's of other stuff to do. But, since this had turned out to be golf-week for my jottings, I'll continue the theme. And that brings me back to Pebble Beach.
Way back when Hollywood was becoming a Mecca, many stars moved to the West Coast and some took up the game of golf. Bob Hope and Gene Autry, for example, bought up oodles of acreage in southern California and began developing housing and resorts. "Der Bingle" Crosby went the other way, discovered the Monterey Peninsula and struck a claim at Pebble Beach.
What Bing started out with was "The Clambake," in 1947, a few days of fun and relaxation attended by more and more each year, from show business and other endeavors, but first and foremost, a very strong attachment to golf. In time the field became a mix of professional players and non, leading to a "Pro-Am" tourney each year that eventually became a recognized event. Past celebrities included many Hollywood legends, some of whom were actually fairly good golfers. Jim Backus, who starred in many movies and television shows, actually made the 36-hole cut in 1964.
The things I recall most about the tournament when I began watching many years ago on TV was how serious the well-known show people were. Though household names in their own professions, for the Crosby weekend they came to play golf. You could see the tension and concern on their faces when they set up for their shots, and the unrehearsed reactions, good or bad, when they saw the results.
In fact, they looked no different then whoever I played the game with myself. So, if nothing else, the event made them seem very real. And, if you saw Clint Eastwood, an avid player, hit an errant shot, I'd rather stare at Dirty Harry's magnum than be within a hundred yards of his wrath.
Now, as much as I enjoyed that tournament every year, I haven't tuned in for quite a while. Because although Bing started the event for golfers who happened to be in show business or whatever else, he's been gone for a while now and his treasured week of golf has been kidnapped by a horde of self-serving, uncoordinated clods who don't have a clue as to what the game is about.
And that I guess is why I'm typing this entry. I can find the words to describe how I feel about leeches who creep in on someone else's dime to promote themselves, but I can't print them here. Well, I guess I could, but I won't. There's a clown named Bill Murray, for example, who was one of the first to get me to change the station.
Watching this guy, if he really is one, swing a club is like viewing a spastic paraplegic with AIDS. The only thing I really can't figure out is, no matter how much money he thinks he'll save from the free self-promotion, how can he embarrass himself by swinging like Tiny Tim on drugs on national TV? I guess he just doesn't give a damn about how bad he looks, or how much he's denigrating the game, but neither do I. My mother could beat this guy if she gave him ten strokes a side, and she's been dead for twenty years.
Then there's Ray Romano, I think that's his name. He actually went out and somehow convinced a golf channel to produce a show about how bad he plays. I've never watched it, but I simply don't understand why anyone would want to appear on TV just to show people how bad you can be at something. But, even so, the next question is: Why would anyone watch it?
Last for today is Charles Barkley the ex-basketball thug. I don't know how to describe whatever it is he thinks is a golf swing, but I'd bet big bucks that he doesn't own a mirror. Because if he viewed his own slashing swipe at the ball he'd not only give up the game, he'd hang himself.
So, little by little like everything else the hangers-on, wannabee's and self-servers will continue to slime their way in and kill another great sport. But, in the end I'll benefit from it in spades. Because, once these parasites have ruined the game for most, I'll be able to get a tee-time anywhere, any time I want.
That's it for today folks.
Adios
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