2016 Member Guest

Mid-May 2016

OMG, he needs an aspirin!

Just hung up with Dave . . . it’s always a challenge getting my 2 cents in before he consumes the conversation. As usual he politely asked how I was doing and before I could get a word out tells me he is fighting a neck strain. Geez that’s awful … a strained neck . . . I feel the need to remind him who he’s speaking with but refrain, so he then says as if this were a life-threatening event he needed two, TWO Aleve to get any relief at all.

OMG!

Now I have known Dave for almost 30 years and would say, next to my doctor he knows pretty much all that ails me . . . and I must say, it’s an impressive list . . . herniated disc’s, blown-out shoulders, completely reconstructed ankle, elevated blood pressure, incontinence and ED . . . and those don’t even qualify for the first page. I also ingest enough pills before breakfast to stock a mid-sized pharmacy, a handful more at lunch and by diner don’t know where or who I am.

But being his buddy and knowing he played in a tournament I solicitously ask how he was able to fight through the miasma of pain he surly was in if he had to take TWO Aleve. What do I get? A huge estrogen fueled girly sigh . . . after which he says “It was awful, I shot 81”. . .

I am stunned and need to compose myself so not to alarm him . . . he’s a Benji-esk 6 posing as an 11 and shoots 81 which if my calculations are correct is spot-on if he were a 9. Conversely I’m a 20 playing like a 40 feeling like I’m 80 and I refuse to moan . . . much.

However let it be known I love Dave, despite what I write. To complete the (true) story when he relinquishes the floor I casually mention I was having some issues with my balance and how it’s affecting my walking causing me to fall. To which Dave tells me in his “I’m almost interested” voice . . . “yeah, that must suck, try a couple of Aleve”.

Speaking of which

I actually also use Aleve prior to playing golf but because I take pills for everything else; shaking, falling, drooling and standing erect …speaking of which, if I want anything else erect I need even more pills…do so as a last resort.

Interesting aside, I think my wife puts Aleve in my Viagra bottle. Since they are indistinguishable from one another what usually happens after 30 minutes (recommended wait time for increased blood flow to wake the sleeping giant and pave the way for an incredible 5 – 10 seconds of intense lovemaking) is: I get nothing. Not even a flutter. Actually what I get are pain-free joints coupled with a strange desire to mow grass. Did I mention we have the most manicured lawn in our development …

Norbeck CC – A view from outside in

When first introduced to Norbeck I was expecting a conservative Republican enclave replete with well-heeled members…mortgage brokers, national news figures, financiers, etc.…scions of industry and politics.

The first “scion” I met was John Bjorn a very successful business owner who has a proclivity for showing off his enormous testicles by letting them “breathe” while having breakfast. No big deal, probably relaxes Board members while discussing mergers and acquisitions. Next up is Dave’s brother-in-law Danny who, while recently recognized for his professional work, is much better known for a drink bearing his name. Unfortunately his status within the professional circle which honored him took a small hit after he decided it would be a “good idea” to personally engage in “quality control” by slamming the first 20 Dan Smith’s in production… then attempt to drive home…apparently his “do you know who I am?” defense fell a little short with the patrolmen who found him asleep in his car…a prudent act considering the circumstances unless, of course, one finds it unacceptable to do so in the middle of an intersection. Defending him is my all-time favorite 1-800-LAWYER, personal trainer, Herb Albert look-alike and Uber golfer, Benjie Boscolo. While weighing in at a pre-anorexic buck and a half he nonetheless out-drives most of the participants in the field…even “daddy hits it far” has been bested, not that he would remember…actually neither of them would. Benjie due to his enjoying the social aspect of the Member-Guest possibly more than most and who has been known to consume his body weight in Vodka usually just after Thursday’s practice round…well sometimes Friday’s opener …did notice once or twice Saturday’s award ceremony every day and Dave? Well because he’s Dave. Then there’s Tim Burke; a wonderful and caring man who for some reason felt the need to constantly hug me while planting sloppy kisses on my cheeks and telling me how much he loved me. I figured the cause of this affection was either Dave telling him how bad I was doing and how he (Dave) was considering a sabbatical from his job to help Sally give me my much anticipated twice weekly sponge baths…or the fact he imbibed 30 beers while playing 27 holes in temperatures rivaling those typically not seen outside a blast furnace. I was only a little worried when I noticed he and longtime partner guest, Gordon Williams, spent an inordinate amount of time searching for “lost balls” . . . not that there is anything wrong with that. Last, but far from least, there is a wannabe pastry chef (Gaetan Brunetto) masquerading as an insurance salesman who went on to win acclaim writing the by-laws of a secret society on a turtles belly…and these represent the more “normal” ones.

Of course, they’re all still there…but someone new is beginning to challenge this elite group for a seat at the big table. I first heard his name when Dave called to solicit $100 so I could help some member apparently named “Nick, great guy” build another bar. When I ask who’s Nick? I get “Nick? Great guy,” which if you’re building a bar at Norbeck, I should have expected…still, if this is the latest phrase du jour it’s better than “seriously dude, serious” or onetime crowd favorite “just saying”… you’d have thought by now Dave would have outgrown MTV but to each their own.

Regardless, when Dave asked for the donation I politely explained I was planning to give $100 to my grandson who was going to the shore so he could spend it on fun things like rides, souvenirs and junk food. Dave tells me that certainly would be considered an “option” . . . how nice . . . but my contribution here would be much more appreciated since it would help defer the rising costs of getting hammered, retaining counsel to defend making inappropriate comments to the female staff and, most important, augment efforts to pay-off the home in the Cayman’s “Nick?, great guy” bartered for in-lieu of anymore “embarrassing” cash payments. When I ask where they are going to put this bar I am told “it’s in development” and work is underway determining the “right” spot. Apparently one member, a scion of broadcast media, reached out to contacts developed over years reporting on the Pentagon and managed to secure the use of several military satellites. These will be re-targeted to triangulate longitude and latitude to an optimal spot so when complete no member will ever be more than 50 feet from alcohol.

Judging from past Member-Guest’s this wouldn’t seem a priority since 95% of the field is usually inebriated by the third hole of the practice round. But Norbeck has a fairly unique clientele, Pavlovian really. To ensure their laser-like attention one only needs to mention the word “liquor”, a fact fully understood by “Nick, great guy” who brilliantly married it to all his “beautification” proposals rendering any resistance futile.

I later learned Nick was telling everyone the reason he wanted to build this latest edifice was a desire to “give back”. In fact giving back did have something to do with it since the more likely scenario is a customer decided not move on a project and “gave back” the materials he had already paid for allowing Nick to “resell” or, when discussing his latest buildout plans with Norbeck’s crack Grounds Committee members, “heavily discount” the cost of said materials in exchange for even more work. I just checked with Zagat’s and Norbeck CC has been relisted as a “Quarry” which just happens to have 18 holes of golf  . . . which is playable if you can find any grass.

Currently possessing more decorative rocks then Stonehenge, the Coliseum and the Vatican combined; Nick is on the verge of transforming Norbeck from a lush beautifully laid out golf mecca to something challenging the Great Wall of China for number of bricks, pavers and stone used for a single project. Of little interest to the throngs mobbing the bars or roasting their nuts at the multitude of fire pits (my last visit I thought I was in purgatory; everywhere I turned there was fire…although on second thought it probably serves as a good introductory for many of the members, easing them into their final destination) is the pending sale of the club to a consortium. Curiously this follows closely the trajectory of Nick’s “giving back.” Of course any correlation between that and the “improvements” he suggested/sold and implemented is merely a coincidence.

You have to hand it to those Norbeck boys, they have their priorities right…and Nick Bobruska? Great guy!

The gift of Parkinson’s

I mention this only because I’m looking for sympathy, a preferred parking spot and more strokes during Member-Guest it has relevance to my attending this year’s event. So, as the disease continues to encroach on my ability to be self-sustaining, I find my friends continually trying to help. Most do it when I’m in their foursome just to speed up the pace of play but then there is Dave. This is why he is so good at whatever the hell it is he does for a living. He seizes opportunity…he knew a couple of years ago I would soon become even more dependent on others for little things… getting dressed, carrying a plate…breathing. Sensing this could be huge for him he starts helping me in and out of the cart during Member-Guest…but curiously, only when others are there to witness this selfless act. Unnoticed is his subsequent action once in the cart; like driving 100 yards past my tee shot despite gentle reminders, such as striking him with a 7-iron (another case of my “under-clubbing), to let me out. After hitting I walk back to find him still circling in the high junk for “daddy hit it far…somewhere” and get, “You could’ve helped me look…just saying”…vintage Dave.

This year promised to be a watershed opportunity for Mr. Sensitive as I have added some very attractive symptoms to compliment my already exciting repertoire. A few months back I was talking with Dave saying how my foot seizures were getting worse and he replies I need something “new” to whine about as everyone is tired hearing the same old shit. Figuring this is as close to sympathy as it gets with him I agree and decided I would try a new drug recommended by my Neurologist which would address the crippling seizures, grow new hair and drop me from heavy weight to cruiser class. After an initial up tic in my situation I discover all I had accomplished was to “trade in” my crippling foot seizures for the ever popular “sticky feet syndrome” one of the more debilitating and painful options and one I was hoping not to get primarily because I’m vain and it makes me look old, debilitated and helpless…OK, just like I was before I took that shit.

So when I cruised in to this year’s Member-Guest I was (still am) working on the perfect cocktail of neurologic drugs. Better yet, I was also dragging along a walker my neighbor gave me which is helpful whenever things get hairy and which I wasn’t going to advertise since it really signifies I am losing ground to this thing which I will not let beat me (inspirational huh? what? right?)

Necessitating a logistical exercise similar in scope to that employed for the D-Day invasion I invite good buddy Chris Halloran up to play golf at my club for two days prior to MG and then Thursday morning have him drive me to Norbeck where he will hand me off to Dave. Once the event is over my wife will drive down and attend the banquet after which we go back to Dave’s and make love all night we drive home Sunday.

We do, he does and we won’t, so it is late Thursday morning we’re at Norbeck eating, drinking (of course) and it’s like I never left. As the crowd thins in preparation for the practice round I ask Dave where he’s parked so we can transfer my wardrobe for the week from the U-Haul I rented and Chrissy towed down to his family van. It was then Dave realized either he didn’t have a car, lost his car or someone to stole his car; the end result being the same he says just dump it all by his locker. As I normally pack enough clothes to last me into winter I am not happy with this news, worse, I had the walker with me. I begin to say something but too late . . . he’s discovered what he believes is the Rosetta stone, the Chalice and Holly Grail rolled into one and begins carrying around my neighbor’s walker desperately looking for someone to impress with his caring. First guy he sees is Chris Haberman, great guy and good buddy. Dave walks up and waits for him to ask what he’s doing with a walker…thankfully Chris is more concerned with unrest in the Balkans and the impact on medical marijuana and therefore oblivious to Dave’s blatant flaunting of my hardware. Next up is Benjie but when he asks if that’s for Dave’s “bad” neck and suggests he number it as evidence Dave gives up and throws it in the pile by his locker…

2016 MG officially underway

I know this sounds horrible and people will say it couldn’t be because they watched as Dave would tenderly lead me to the car each night after the festivities wound down and how about that truly heart rendering speech after winning our second Member-Guest or his offering me his arm after teeing off to prevent my falling down?

Bullshit, bullshit…and more bullshit.

In fairness, I’m sure Dave wants me to live a few more years because the worse I get the better he looks and at the moment he’s Brad Pitt, George Clooney and Bradley Cooper rolled in one. Frankly, I’m considering checking out early just to deprive him of such honoraria…but I digress. The trigger point for me was a conversation I had with Grant Grayson this year after finishing Thursday’s practice round. Well, we didn’t really finish because we never actually started  . . . doesn’t matter.

As usual, after playing I’m shot and all I want is something cold to drink and a comfortable chair. As he is gently lifting my tired ass out of the cart (obviously people were present) he says, “Just put everything on my number, I got it” which would have been nice except “everything” was already included in the tournament…however, since most of the field had imbibed a tanker truck worth of Vodka drinks that small, insignificant fact went unnoticed. So he drops me off at the latest Bobruska boondoggle “Nick’s Bar” (really? this is the best they can do? Nick’s Bar?) where the temperature is a chilly 87 degrees and since this is Norbeck some meathead has a fire going at “The Nick Pit” (another display of Norbeckian creativity) located at a spot which once was a bucolic half-acre of manicured grass-land.

Now Grant Grayson is probably the nicest guy in the entire world…really…and completely out of his environment here…more really. His brother Craig, member emeritus at The Beck, is also one of the nicest guys in the world just a scooch less aristocratic than his brother the Prince. Both are past winners. In fact, I believe they were the first winners of this storied event but, as Dave likes to say, “If you can’t win this more than once you shouldn’t be recognized.” As for me, I frankly can’t stand either one of them…they’re so perfect and I have so many flaws and have done so many terrible things including harboring carnal thoughts of Charlotte this year, I have no business talking to either of them. Truth be told, I think King Grant is more sought after because he belongs to a couple of high-end clubs around Richmond so whenever he shows up it’s like throwing chum in the water for the Norbeck sharks all trying to suck up and get a round in.

Reminds me, Grant, we still on for the fall?

So I no sooner sit down and “His Perfectness” leads with how moved he is by the way Dave has been taking care of me…really, moved? I should have moved, but didn’t feel like fighting the crowd of Riley brothers congregated in the middle of the nicely paved patio sucking beers and saying how nice it is to have another place to drink after getting flagged at the main bar.

My exit blocked, I calmly begin my rebuttal offering for his consideration a North Jersey staple when engaging in any argument regardless the topic, “Are you f’ing nuts?” Sensing by the number of inches his eyes bulged out, I quickly deduced my choice of descriptive phraseology was absent his vocabulary causing him to be momentarily stunned. Sensing my opening may be short-lived I dive into the heart of my thesis. I’m on a roll and feel I have him on the cerebral ropes promising when I’m done he will clearly see the error of his ways and that my getting Parkinson’s was the best thing that happened to Dave since they started putting elastic in XL baseball caps.

Laser-focused on overturning his obvious misconceptions I explain what is missing is a true reconstruction of events substantiating my claim. In support of my position I pull out a chart published by the US Geological Society replete with color-coded dots depicting where each offense occurred quickly followed by a reference to my stellar academic bona fids. . . four years at the nationally respected Bordentown Regional HS where I garnered a much sought after diploma (due in part to the teaching staff who unanimously petitioned the board claiming any further effort to teach me would be futile and would matter little to my eventual career in the food service industry) and later at the prestigious (now defunct) Top Gun business course sponsored by (now defunct) Bell Atlantic.

Ten minutes in and I’m cruising, Perry Mason would be impressed…I enumerate all that is wrong with his perception providing an example so basic even he would have to concede…last year’s MG…Thursday night as festivities were winding down…Dave and I at his locker packing up when we hear a group stumbling our way… worried they will see us before he has a chance to parlay the opportunity, he offers the following in his out-door voice:

“Brian let me button that for you; I see you are having trouble”…referring to a sleeve I was wearing which, of course, didn’t have buttons.

“Brian, I see you can’t walk, wait here and I will find a wheel-chair to push you in.”…thoughtful . . . yet not, for if a wheelchair were found his pushing it would have been a bit difficult due to the 3 beers and a to-go cup he was juggling along with my walker. Adding to his dilemma was our escape route took us past yet another of the Bobruska monuments, the selflessly named and extraordinarily creative “Nick’s Bar”……where he would be picking up at least another 4 for the ride home.

Nonetheless I execute a flawless close weaving in all the speculative evidence, calling Benjie, Mickey and Leo as supportive witnesses, wipe the sweat off my face, sit back down and wait for the thunderous applause sure to follow. That I’m still waiting has little relevance on the truth and merely demonstrates the egregious lack of social norms wherever it is Mr. Perfect is from.

I turn to my witnesses and find Benjie has discovered he is dangerously close to becoming sober, immediately recuses himself from further testimony and goes in search of refueling and Mickey, apparently not getting the memo schools are closed for the summer and he is now married, leaves to stake out the bus stop across from the club.

Thankfully Leo is still here and says what I thought was, “Grant he’s right, it’s obvious…even to me.” Unfortunately, after reading through the transcripts what he actually said was, “Grant, ya may be a hrrses arse, right,what? “But e drools like me wee granderter…heh, who?” “so I’m with you…beer? hey, what ? right?”

The perfect gentleman to the end, Father Grant replete with custom ordered Bruno Magli “apre golf” slide-on’s, complementing natty vineyard vines chinos and a black wife beater, extends his hand and says, “Stupid is a learned trait…you obviously had a good teacher.”

OK, I got that going for me.
Back to Me

I mention this only because I love talking about me, want Charlotte to give me a hug have been fighting the last three months with doctors trying to get my medication right and in the process have discovered something new. Apparently my high school diploma qualifies me to deal with my Harvard Medical School alumni doctor on a peer basis and prescribe medications possessing the ability to…well…kill you. Upon seeing my doctors at University of Pennsylvania, I am given “new” drugs to combat the further deterioration of my motor skills. After our initial consult they say stop the drug dosed at 3 pills a day which are causing the foot seizures and try the new drug calling for 4 pills, 4 times a day. I was a bit hesitant until I learned they come with a convenient 5-pocket backpack to carry them in. Although not happy, I’m a gamer (being Dave’s partner for 12 years I can pretty much take anything in stride) and say I’ll give it a go. Two weeks in, no more seizures! Unbelievable! However, like being Dave’s partner, I am also used to being let down and broken hearted which is what happened when I discovered although my seizures were gone I had developed an unusual desire to Salsa dance shuffle my way around the house. Sally ever the optimist quickly realized the benefit possible and glued Swiffer duster pads to my slippers resulting in our hardwood floors never looking so good. . . .

She’s happy, I’m not.

What’s actually happening is whenever I start to walk; the only part of my body getting the message is my upper half. It being the larger half of the Stark load, it begins to “stride” solo…this doesn’t sit well with my legs and feet, which metaphorically say “f*ck off” (another Jersey euphemism) to the torso and refuse to cooperate. The continuation of this stalemate causes ones feet to jerk spasmodically while shouting “ole!” until the lower half finally gets in gear. Once engaged and feeling it has missed out on some fun the lower body decides to over-accelerate necessitating a quick stomping down of the lead foot to avoid the ever popular falling into something usually not built to withstand the unexpected onslaught of 230lbs of Stark muscle ass. I fight with this for about a week then develop an incredibly painful case of tendonitis in my right Achilles tendon and although used to severe pain (see Ryan, Dave partner) this is up there.

So I call my doctors back and ask what I should do…they say, “Try 3 pills, 4 times a day and see if that works”…do and it doesn’t.  I call back again and ask what I should do…they say, “Try taking 1 of your old meds with 4 of your new meds 4 times a day and see if that works”…do and it doesn’t. I call back…again…and ask what I should do…they say, “Try 1 of your old pills and 3 of your new pills 4 times a day” and I do and, of course, it doesn’t do shit except make we want to sleep, which isn’t bad except it occurs only when driving.

So I call them . . . again . . . and relay my displeasure with things in the only way I know how, by politely telling them I am tired of this shit and am becoming very cranky so here’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to try a couple of different combinations and will let them know…and they say OK.  OK? I’m a high-school graduate whose medical training encapsulates a two-hour safety meeting I attended when an installer for NJ Bell. OK??

Ok it is. However, not being a total idiot, I do ask if there is risk of any notable downsides to my strategy…like death…once cleared of that hurdle, I was on my own. Now, in their defense, that’s how this disease works…it’s not the same for everyone, more of a “boutique” disease which I like, not run of the mill but something to get you noticed.

To be continued …

November 30, 2016

Ok, it’s been three or four months and I am out of work so decided to try and finish this piece of shit so I can smoke the Cuban cigar Danny Wolf gave me after securing my commitment to write a recap. I was going to smoke it when I got it but felt dirty because I promised I would send him this first thus demonstrating once again what a true idiot I am.  Where were we? So far it’s been me, me, my Parkinson’s and me again . . . perfect.

So we win our flight which is always great and this year it was largely due to Dave and his steady play (you’re welcome buddy). Once in the shoot-out my meds finally kick-in and I start playing pretty well, energizing the crowd and giving rise to the possibility of another championship . . . instead we get eliminated . . . largely due to Dave’s not so stellar play (just saying?).

Watch the final and congratulate the winners then head back to Dave’s to get cleaned up. This year Sally came down to attend with me (what the hell was I thinking?) and I had to tell her she might find it difficult to believe . . . I still do . . . but there are some people there who actually like me. I get some wiseass reply which I let go and twenty minutes later we’re back at the club, twenty-five minutes later I see Sally with Dave’s wife Alice and a bunch of people and she has this incredulous look on her face, she sees me and mouths OMG!!

I know, I have some just incredible friends here. Guys who I would do anything for and who already do so much for me I can’t begin to thank them. Every year I look forward to coming down and seeing them, it might be the only time all year I do and it’s as if we never left the year before. I try and remember every act of kindness expressed on my behalf, a helping hand given without any thought, asking if I need anything . . . it’s overwhelming. . . so much to be thankful for and believe me . . . I am.

So there you are Danny, not much of a close but know how much you all mean to me . . . all of you.