Bro
Having a knack at raising money – for other people – I got ‘volunteered’ to be on the local Big Brothers of America board of directors – ‘Managing Director, fund raising’. Although I consented, I refused to bend to their persistent pestering to take on a ‘Little’, as the organization affectedly calls them. I had no desire to deal with some lost, unfortunate juvenile, with a life already out-of-luck before his teens. Hey, it’s a tough world.

The ‘Pizza Festival’ netted $600, but the 1st annual Big Brothers’ golf tournament promised to do better. To give it more legitimacy the committee felt the ‘Littles’ should take part. The problem was the ‘Littles’ were too little. “How ‘bout adding a putting contest?” I suggested. End of problem.

The morning of the tournament, Pat called. Pat, the most cunning, underhanded sneakiest woman I’ve ever known, had one goal in life: get me to accept a ‘Little’. She was relentless, though I had to admit, no one was better at pairing ‘Bigs’ and ‘Littles’. She could pick a perfect match at a hundred yards, in the dark, connive you into that match, and have you thinking it was your own decision.

Knowing that, I should have been on high alert. But it was early Sunday morning, bad hangover; she caught me off guard. A ‘Little’ needed a ride, she said, and it was on my way; could I please pick him up in time for the contest? No problem, I thought. I thought wrong.

It was pouring rain. I barely tooted the horn when out came this skinny little whelp dodging puddles with the agility of a first-string half-back, leaping toys and hedge like a track star. I leaned over and cracked the door. He jumped in dripping wet, water running down his stringy blond hair, over his youthful face of pre-puberty innocence, past a wide smile full of teeth, and onto my new $200 leather seat covers. Not an auspicious beginning.

With barely a ‘howdy’ he laid into a machine gun chatter with enough details to stymie a mainframe. In fewer minutes than his age – eleven – I knew his whole life story. Twice! Steve didn’t just worm his way into your heart; he jack-hammered his way in.

When we reached the golf course the rain had stopped, clouds parted, and Pat was waving for us to hurry, the putting contest was about to begin.
About twenty ‘Littles’ prepared for the elimination rounds. Some were shorter than the putter, so they’d be out soon. At least they got to compete, which was the whole idea, right? The ‘Littles’ thought otherwise. To them, this was the PGA.

Round by round the mini-midgets were eliminated. Some groaned, other moaned, a few threw a fit. The adults tried to calm them with admonitions about being good sports. I was no help quoting Vince Lombardi: “Show me a good loser, and I’ll show you a loser.”

It wasn’t long before it became obvious whom it would come down to. Steve was definitely a front-runner. He had a steady hand, good concentration, coordination, and a nice smooth stroke for his age. Steve was a natural athlete; lack of confidence was his only setback.

The other contender was a wise ass, too big for his age and his britches; a dough ball, a foot taller and two feet wider than his peers, who’d go through life thinking ‘clever’ is the same as ‘intelligent’. He was sharp, he knew it, and didn’t hesitate to use it. Every round he’d bully his way to go first. He understood psychology. Unfortunately for him, so did I.

As expected, it boiled down to Big Butt and Steve. Before final round, they took a break. Steve had already resigned himself to second-place. He was satisfied with that. The kid had two years on him; Steve didn’t think he stood a chance. I took him off to the side and gave him a crash course in Psych 101.

“Look, the trick is to go first,” I said. “Whoever goes first has no pressure. Even if it takes 10 putts, number two still has to beat that. Therefore, number two is under pressure. That’s how he’s winning; he’s not that good. He’s counting on you beating yourself. He’s gone first every round. Stand up to him and demand he let somebody else go first for a change.”

Steve gazed up at me with his wide smile and the most incredible gleam in his bright blue eyes; a look I will never forget. It was as though in his mind I was the smartest, most all-knowing person he would ever meet. I was Apollo, Zeus, and Thor all rolled into one. For that brief moment, I actually thought I could command lightning, wind and thunder. It felt good, of course, until it dawned on me what a heavy burden that is. Like I said, I’m nobody’s big brother, and I sure as hell was not interested in the role of God.

The final round was ready to begin. Big Butt muscled his way to the green ready to take his putt.

I stood watching. Steve was nervous, a little scared, he was on his own. He started to back away, then glanced over at me watching to see what he would do. He’d resigned himself back to second-place.

Ashamed he had to let me down, his sad face begged me to understand.
For once, I wished I was God; maybe then I could forgive him.

Instead, I looked up at the sky and shook my head in disappointment. That was all Steve needed to see. The next thing I heard was this little guy’s voice trying to sound strong, exerting his rights against all odds for the first time in the real world.
“Wait! I think I should go first. I’m younger, he’s older. He’s gone first every time.”

“What difference does it make?” Big Butt shouted.

“Good,” said Steve, crowding his way to the green, and nudging his opponent aside, “since it doesn’t make any difference to you, I’ll just go ahead and go first.”

Calm, cool, steady, deep breath, eyes glued to the ball, putter squared to the cup, heels locked, knees slightly bent, back straight, just as he’d seen on television.

Butt had a ‘Big’ somewhere in the crowd; I’d already scoped him out, casually made my way over, and stood with arms folded next to him. With both of us focused on the action, I leaned toward him slightly and said out of the corner of my mouth, “Five bucks he wins.”
‘Big’ looked at me, rolled his eyes, laughed, and said, “Make it ten.”

One stroke, two strokes, three strokes, contact, follow through, the ball rolled over the green straight for the cup. A thirty-foot putt-in-one by an eleven-year-old was too good to believe …so I didn’t. Nevertheless, it got pretty darn close. Five feet, still not an easy putt. Steve squared off to do it again.

One stroke, two strokes, three strokes, contact, follow through, and again the ball rolled over the green straight for the cup. Only this time there was no doubt where it was gonna end up. It was headin’ for home. It hit the cup slightly off-center and started to drop after it circled the edge a time or two. Centrifugal force took over, however, and the ball made an exit stage right.

There it sat, less than a blade of grass away from the cup looking as sad as the sigh from the crowd. I tried with everything I had to call forth my power to command the wind. Forget lightning and thunder, one small breeze was all it would take. Just this one time, and I promised never to ask again. Apollo, Zeus, and Thor all turned a deaf ear.

Without ceremony, Steve didn’t even bother to square up; a light tap put it in. He then slung that putter over his shoulder, strutted off the green right past his opponent, and without a pause looked dead up at him, and said, “Next.”

At last count, it was 16 and the ball was nowhere near the cup. The putting contest was over, but in frustrated determination, the poor kid had turned it into a contest with himself. It was difficult not to feel pity, for that is one contest you can never win.

Steve picked up his trophy, I picked up my ten, and we headed back for home. He sat silently holding his prize. We were both too proud to talk. After awhile, Steve turned towards me, smiled, and said, “You know, this trophy belongs to both of us, Bro.”

What a word, I thought. ‘Bro.’ Just by the tone he used, the feeling he expressed when he said it, it defined a relationship between two men like no other. The word has had special meaning to me ever since. I’m not your dad, I’m not your brother, I’m not even your friend. I’m your Bro.

It’s been nineteen years since that day, and Steve still calls me Bro.
…and no, I did not split the ten.

Epilogue

What became of Steve?

Somehow, I ended up with legal custody and helped him get through his later teen-years. As difficult as that was, I never would have imagined that skinny-ass, beanpole, nail-biting, pimple face would grow up to become a ‘Ford Agency’ high-fashion model traveling the world first-class on their dime, making around $3000. a day. And, between dates he conducts seminars for top CEO’s on… ‘Confidence Building’.

…and no, he does not split the three-grand.

We woke Mark up with only ten minutes overtime. Connie had him close his eyes while she guided him to the deck. The whole trip; open your eyes, SURPRISE!!! Yeahhhhh! Up with the music.

Mark didn’t know what to think, other than we’d lost our minds.

Puzzled, dazed, he looked nervously around at the balloons and decorations, the bubbling Jacuzzi, candles and all, and then asked us what was going on.

“It’s a party, Mark, a Jacuzzi party …in your honor.”

He stiffened a bit and shot a glance at the sign, but relaxed when he saw it wasn’t there.

“In my honor? May I enquire as to the occasion?”

“Happy Demise Day,” we cheered, holding our Baileys up for a toast.
“Demise Day?”

“Right, it’s the Diamond Jubilee of the day of your demise. Speech, speech…” I turned down the music.

I thought for a minute there that I would go on record as the one who put Mark Twain at a loss for words. Never happen. He stood erect, cleared his throat, and began:

“’tis an honor to be called to such a special occasion, this Diamond Jubilee …more so since I am the one it is honoring. It has seemed eons since that first celebration of my demise, though I did not attend that one, consciously that is, I am sure there was a sizable few who felt they had cause for celebration, and welcomed the opportunity with enthusiasm. After three-quarters of a century, many would think that I might be slowing down. Let me assure them, as far as my demising goes, I have not yet begun.”

‘Here, here …Cheers!’ Then we downed what was left of the Baileys.

After Mark changed into his red hula trunks, we all slipped slowly into the ol’ Jacuzzi… ‘Ahhhhhhh’. Mark gave it a double ‘Ahhhhhhh’. An eight-person Jacuzzi with only three people leaves a lot of room without having to wait your turn to try all the different combinations of jets to body parts.

Mark seemed in his element, finding the shoulder blade-lower back-calves-foot coordinated pulsating jet position, in less time then it takes a moray to nestle into a crevice.

I popped the champagne, and poured. No matter what changes women may make, on down to turning all men into submissive eunuchs, cork-popping will always be the man’s job.

“Ahhh yes, champagne,” Mark said after a sip. “I should have known. Finally, I have found a perfection that has not changed, or has needed to. The one thing the French got right. A toast: To that little monkish monsignor who first uttered, ‘My lord, I am drinking stars’.”

We ate and drank, and drank and ate, while effervescent bubbles from air jets and fizz from champagne turned us into jellyfish. We even got Mark to do one of his stories, the one about the man bending over with the ram lining up to charge him. Connie confirmed that he didn’t miss a word; it was exactly as she’d read numerous times.

After fritters and before oysters, we presented Mark with High Eagle’s dream catcher – a pentagonal frame woven with various homespun threads in several desert sunset colors, and decorated in beads, shells, and hawk feathers – an ingenious Hopi invention that filters out bad dreams but captures the good ones.

A tricky thing to do, important too, ’cause if the dream catcher maker screws up, you could get in an incubus amount of trouble. Never fear, when it comes to dream catcher making, High Eagle knows his business.

We reassured Mark that High Eagle, a fifteenth generation hippie Hopi shaman of the corn clan, protector of the eastern light and guided by the healing flute vibrations of the Kachina Kokopelli, was rated as one of the top dream catcher makers in the country, twice on the cover of Dream Catcher Magazine, chairman of Shamanist International, and proprietor of Shaman r’ us head shop.

We brought out the key lime pie with candles and sang ‘Happy Demise day to youuuu…’ Demise day being the opposite of birthday, Mark made a wish and lit the candles, but wouldn’t tell us what he wished, after which I gave him the greeting card I’d made.

He admired the abstract design, said something about it being a fitting depiction of my mind – a left-handed compliment, to be sure – and read aloud…

To the laziest man I ever knew,
Who after 75 years of rest…
Gets up and yawns,
looks out and says,
“…think I’ll take a vacation from death.”

“My utmost compliments on your verse, particularly the way it so directly fits the person of subject. I have always been lazy, I was born lazy. From the beginning of my sojourn in this world there has been a persistent vacancy in me where industry ought to be. I see no reason why my state of demise should change that.”

“Reid,” Mark said as though he had something he wanted to bring up, but was not sure how to begin. “I do not wish to diminish the significance of this celebration, nor would I wish to impinge on any aspect of its good time, but would I be wrong in pointing out that the year 1910 subtracted from 1986 would leave us with an extra year to this jubilee?”

Damn! I was hoping nobody noticed.

“Well’p, you know Mark,” I said with a slow drawl that he could relate to, “I thought about that, kicked it around my calculator several times. Even tried changing year one to year zero, but that cantankerous calculator would not cooperate to my satisfaction. So I resorted to a technique I’ve recently learned from a dear friend.” I paused to demonstrate another technique I’d also learned from that same dear friend.

“And what, if I may ask, might that be?”

I forced myself to extricate from a most comfortable position, turned to my dear friend, and replied, “Never let truth get in the way of a good story, never let facts get in the way of a good laugh, and never let dates get in the way of a good cause for celebration.”

He gave me a knowing grin, and let it go at that.

All say, “How hard it is that we have to die”– a strange complaint to come from the mouths of people who have had to live.” MT

Lonely Planet Grind

I needed to find untouched culture
A place to calm the mind
Where I could experience our past
The heart of humanity, the roots of mankind

Where could I find such space…
Where does this experience reside…
With nowhere to turn I bought the latest edition of
‘Lonely Planet Guide’

I thought the beaches of Bolivia
Would be nice to see
Too late,
They’ve been overrun by Chile

Lonely Planet said Titicaca
Machu Picchu is best
You and 3,000,000 others a year
On this spiritual quest.

In Sri Lanka, said Lonely Planet
Buddha’s tooth is persevered in Kandy
You may even spot the vanishing Tamil tiger
That sounded just dandy

But the guidebook failed to mention
A very important thing
Tamil tigers are the ones
Who actually do the hunting

Another must was Thai’s Royal Palace,
The world’s largest reclining emerald Buddha,
Exotic temple dancers in colorful sarong
And All-Nite Live U-See Stage Many Girlie Girlie Make Sex
In Bangkok’s sleazy Patpong

Lonely Planet raved Bali’s Kula Beach
Waves ranked surf first rate
I also learned the local dialect like,
G’day’, and ‘ave another piss, mate’.

Himal, Mount Everest Base Camp
The end of the planet
With hot showers, on time stock quotes
And micro-linkup Internet

Srinagar, Kashmir, hey, maybe I could buy a cheap sweater
But Islamic separatists and Hindu factions said I could do better

There’s always China, I thought,
Ancient past,
Ornate shrines,
Wisdom of the Tao
But the Cultural Revolution sledge hammered
And replaced it with
The Teachings of Mao

The South Pacific, Bali Hai is calling
That sounded like fun
Nope, missionaries changed all that
Where are cannibals when you need ‘em…

Tibet, Lhasa, Dalai Lama, Potola
the guide insisted was a must
But ya gotta wait three months to get a visa to ride
…in a typical-tourist, tinted-window, air-conditioned tour bus

The Mediterranean, Greek Islands in summer
Now that sounded like the place to be
By the time I got there Bohemians lined the beaches
Selling Indian jewelry

Remember primitive Bora-Bora
It’s now a Lifestyles Of The Rich and Shameless resort
Some people should have to pass a test
Before being issued a passport

Surely Greenland’s untouched arctic beauty
Thule’s gotta be the place for me
Wrong again…
The Inuit either had tuberculosis or were dying of dysentery.

Alaska fared no better
I explored its wilderness to find
100,000 caribou trying to figure out
How to get around a pipeline

Venice, gondolas, cathedrals, canals
I don’t know what I was thinking
That place has so many visitors a year
The whole city is slowly sinking

Well how ’bout the rainforests of Costa Rica
The sound of a mating Macaw…
But that was hard to hear
Over an un-muffled chainsaw

The guidebook said there was an Amazon tribe
That lived worlds apart
When I found that tribe they wanted to know
If I’d accepted Jesus into my heart

From Timbuktu to Tierra del Fuego
Is there no serenity…
Even Kalahari bushmen are hawking tiger teeth
And illicit ivory

A perfect guidebook should be written with flair
Tell the reader there’s a paradise
But don’t dare tell ‘em where

It’s enough to know it exists
Let that challenge your true grit
Half the fun in any pursuit
Is the adventure in how you find it

I followed Lonely Planet’s directions, did exactly as told
How stupid can you get when it said clearly on the cover
‘…Over 10,000,000 copies sold!’

Epilog:
The Lonely Planet Guide is still a good reference if you follow this suggestion…
Read what it has to say about your destination
Then head in the opposite direction…

It’s the looniest ship I ever sailed
What’d I expect to find
Once I pulled anchor
Left firm shore behind…

Sailing the ocean is scary
Which is why ‘Offshore’ has been defined:
Out of:
(a) Sight of land
(b) Your mind

Especially with no compass, charts or sextant
One prop had a broken screw
And, to make matters worse, could one imagine
This ship had no crew

It did have many strange gizmos
Plus the damnedest contraptions
And who in maritime ever heard
Of a ship with two captains…

It’s easy to fantasize
Though hard to keep afloat
In spite of romantic visions
It’s not the ‘Love Boat’

Her ballast was not enough
To keep her right adrift
So when she took a starboard wave
She had a mean port list

In shallow straight she’s treacherous
Doesn’t handle with ease
You’d do better maneuvering
The Exxon Valdez

In a storm, I’d damn the torpedoes
Throttle full speed ahead
But the other captain demanded
Another course instead

I explained to this Captain Bligh
We’re headin’ for disaster
There’s never been a ship
That can serve two masters
But we both had equal experience
When it came to this sea
So we couldn’t agree
What makes you El Capitàn
Ahead of me…

However, the more we’d navigate
The more we’d cooperate
And appreciate
Aye, aye, mate

In certain storms, I found
The other captain usually knew
The best way to get around

By the same token
I’m the one best at fixing
Anything that’s broken

I’m also program director
For games, contests and more
I always win, never lose,
…’cause I also keep the score

The other captain is gifted in the galley
Which any fool could see
When I make raviolis
It’s gourmet Chef Boyardee

It took some time to figure
What each of us knows
Although we’re still working it out
And stepping on each others toes

We both find it difficult
A source of constant frustration
To come to a conclusion
What exactly is our destination…

To me it sounded terrific
Why not sail the South Pacific…
But the other captain insists on knowing
Which islands in specific…

We do agree however,
No difference near or far
S’long as we lay on deck at night
And count each falling star

There’re still plenty of storms to maneuver
No weather’s always fair
And this ship keeps me busy
In constant need of repair

Aye, it’s hard work, but worth it
So when my tour of duty was done
I had to admit rough times
Were far outweighed by fun

I know I’m probably out of my mind
But I re-enlisted for a permanent trip
On this rickety old boat
Someone aptly named
The HMS ‘Relation’ ship

The Definitive Truth of Health Care

Q: Doctor,  I’ve heard that  cardiovascular exercise can prolong life. Is this true?

A: Your heart is only good for so many beats, and that’s it…  don’t waste them on exercise. Everything wears out eventually.  Speeding up your heart will not make you live longer; that’s like saying you can extend  the life of your car by driving it faster.  Want to live longer?  Take a nap.

Q: Should  I cut  down on meat and  eat more fruits and  vegetables?

A: You  must grasp  logistical efficiencies.  What does a cow eat?   Hay and corn.   And what are these?  Vegetables.  So a steak is nothing more  than an efficient mechanism of  delivering vegetables to your  system.   Need grain?   Eat chicken.   Beef is also a good source of field grass (green leafy vegetable).   And a pork chop can give you 100% of your recommended daily allowance of  vegetable  products.

Q: Should I reduce my alcohol intake?

A:  No, not at all.  Wine is made from fruit.  Brandy is distilled wine, which means they take the water out of the fruity bit so you get even more of the goodness that way.   Beer is also made out of grain.  Bottoms   up!

Q: How can I calculate my body/fat   ratio?

A: Well,  if you have a body and you have  fat, your ratio is one  to one. If you have two bodies, your  ratio is two to  one, etc.

Q: What are some of the advantages of participating in a regular exercise program?

A: Can’t think of a single one, sorry.  My philosophy is: No Pain…Good!

Q:  Aren’t fried foods bad for you?

A:  YOU’RE  NOT  LISTENING!!! …..  Foods are fried these days in vegetable oil.  In fact,  they’re permeated in it.  How could getting more vegetables be bad for  you?

Q:  Will sit-ups  help prevent me from getting a little soft  around  the middle?

A: Definitely not! When you exercise a muscle, it gets bigger. You should

only be  doing sit-ups if you want a bigger   stomach.

Q:  Is   chocolate bad for me?  A:  Are   you crazy? HELLO   Cocoa beans ! Another vegetable!!! It’s the best feel-good   food around!

Q:  Is   swimming good for your figure?

A:  If   swimming is good for your figure,   explain whales to  me.

Q:  Is getting   in-shape important for my lifestyle?

A:  Hey!  ’Round’ is  a shape!

Well,   I hope this has cleared up any misconceptions you may   have had about food   and diets.

‘Life should  NOT  be a journey to the grave with the intention of  arriving

safely in an attractive and well preserved  body, but rather  to skid in

sideways – Chardonnay in one  hand – chocolate in  the other – body

thoroughly used up,  totally worn out and   screaming ‘WOO  HOO, What a

Ride’

1. The Japanese eat very little fat

and suffer  fewer heart attacks than  Americans.

2. The Mexicans eat a lot of  fat

and suffer fewer heart attacks than  Americans.

3. The Chinese drink very little red wine

and suffer fewer heart attacks than  Americans.

4. The  Italians drink a lot of red  wine

and suffer fewer heart attacks than  Americans.

5. The Germans  drink a lot of beers and eat lots of  sausages and fats  and

suffer fewer heart attacks than   Americans.

CONCLUSION

Eat  and drink what you like.

Speaking  English is apparently what kills  you.