COUPLES VEGAS

Couples Vegas

The dice tumble.  As they do, the world is a slow motion jumble of noise, color, and excitement.  A crowd has gathered around the craps table in pit five, and you are a rock star, baybee.  You are on a run like none you’ve ever been on.  The group of young guys with the perpetual five o’clock shadow, dressed like they live in a cologne commercial, have been calling you “One Serious Bastard,” which is apparently a compliment.   Heck, even the Dallas businessmen, all donning hats larger than the state of their birth, have made you an honorary Texan. It’s your night, and it’s going to continue.  You just know it.  The casino has sent a snooper to your table to see if you’re somehow cheating, and the pit boss is watching your every move.  You don’t care, you’re not cheating - it’s just one of those lucky Vegas rolls that happens every third light year.  

“Honey.”  

The music thumps, and even though you have no clue who the band is (you stopped listening to popular music shortly after “Full Moon Fever,” thank God for Sirius/XM’s “Eighties On Eight” channel) it doesn’t matter, this is your night and you’re cooler than Sinatra in ’63.  As the dice approach the far wall, you’re strangely relaxed, almost as if you can see the numbers coming. 

“Honey!”  

Is it 2PM or 2AM?  Does it really matter?  You’re the center of the universe!  Bring it on, Vegas!  This is YOUR night!!!  You OWN this town!!!  Seven, baybee!  I knew it, another seven!!   Hey Cologne Boys, not only am I One Serious Bastard,  I’m your King!  A mighty yell goes up from the crowd!!!

“HONEY!!!!!”

Your eyes snap open, and the crowd has vanished.  There are no Cologne Boys, and no Texans, honorary or otherwise.  The music has changed from hip and pounding to Enya.  Or is it those chanting Monks?  You’re laying on a table in a room full of ferns, naked under a towel.  You look to your right and there’s your lovely wife, sitting up on a table exactly like yours, wrapped in a towel exactly like yours.  There are two other women in the room, dressed in white.  Your wife says “The massage is over, you must have fallen asleep.  There’s a hot tub break now, before the facials.”  Ah yes, now you remember.  It’s a spa weekend in Vegas with your lady.  It’s Couples Vegas.

Don’t get me wrong, Couples Vegas is not bad, not at all.  In fact, it’s actually extremely nice.  When my wife Carolyn and I did our last trip, we ate at high end restaurants, got dressed up for the spectacular shows, and did this eight hour “Couples Treatment” at The Spa At Aria, which is one of the top rated spas in the country.  All good things, all fun in their own way, and heck, any time I get to spend an entire weekend with my girl, without the child, it’s a good thing.  It’s just that this is a different Vegas than the Vegas you’re used to - it seems this trip to Vegas is one where you’ll remember every second, and that’s a bit jarring and unusual for men.  You’re used to coming home with hazy memories and clothes that reek of cigar smoke.  Couples Vegas is a Vegas where when you wake up, everything is peaceful, and you simply begin your day.  This is the part - the daytime part - where as a man, I stepped into a woman’s world and was a bit lost.  See, for our anniversary, I had presented my wife with a certificate saying we would go for a long weekend in Vegas, and during this time there would be no poker, no golfing, no cigars, nada. It was a good bluff on my part, but she called me on it - she’s picked up on my tells.  This was to be HER weekend, and we would do whatever she wanted to do; she’d earned it.  My wife works extremely hard, is a great Mom, and as of this writing has only attempted to murder me in my sleep a couple of times, as far as I know.  The dinners and shows on this trip were a bit out of character for us, as we usually low-key it in those areas, but there’s nothing particularly unusual about them.  The spa trip was the star of the weekend, and it was a world as foreign to me as victory is to Cleveland.  

As I relate the events of Spa Day, I will include side notes to explain the trickier parts to the guys out there among my faithful readers.

On Spa Day, we woke up, had breakfast, showered, and went to the spa, located at Aria.  We arrived, checked in, and were shown to our personal spa suite.  We were to stay in this suite all day, and the various masseuses and other spa practitioners would be coming to us at scheduled intervals.  Apparently, this is a big deal, as Carolyn (along with every subsequent female she’s told about it) was very excited about this fact. (*NOTE FOR GUYS*: I learned that usually during an all-day spa experience, you have to walk from room to room to get the different treatments (massage, facial, manicure, etc).  Yeah, I don’t get it either.  Since these rooms appeared to be a maximum of five feet apart, I can’t imagine how stressful walking between them could possibly be, but she was thrilled about it, so I was thrilled as well.)  After being shown around the suite and its various rooms, our hostess left and Carolyn informed me that step one was to take a shower.  Since we had showered at out hotel no more than forty minutes previous, I inquired as to why another was necessary.  She informed me, in a tone of voice you might use to explain the space-time continuum to a particularly slow-witted chipmunk, that “It’s just something we have to do, OK?”  At this point I knew I should stop asking questions and just roll with it.  While she was in the shower, I explored the suite; I must say it’s pretty fantastic, kudos to the folks at Aria. A shower and bathroom roughly the size of the house we’re hopelessly underwater in was on one end, followed by the treatment room, and finally the “family room,” which consisted of a huge sitting area with a high end couch and chairs, a giant hot tub, and a plasma TV that was at least sixty inches.  (*NOTE FOR GUYS* I knew the TV could get ESPN.  I also instinctively knew that if I attempted to turn it to ESPN, even while she was in the shower, she just might slip a fin-ski to one of the practitioners to “accidentally” punch my manstuff.  I’m not a rookie.)  After my shower (During which, I could swear my hair said “Didn’t we just do this an hour ago?”), we sat in our robes for awhile until the masseuses arrived, and I was asked to choose which scent of oil I wanted for my massage.  When I said I didn’t have any idea, and asked if there were pros or cons to any of the scents, the three women exchanged one of those woman looks where they all but roll their eyes and put a dunce cap on my head.  The masseuse then held the tray of oils closer to my face, in the same way you would jingle your keys in front of a screaming infant to pacify him, and when I finally blurted out “Peppermint” I seriously thought she was going to tousle my hair and reward me with a Scooby Snack.  The two of them then held up towels, told us to drop our robes and lay on the table, and they then draped the towels over us. (*NOTE FOR GUYS*: If I saw another guy who began to give me guff about going to a “girly spa,” my planned response was “I was naked in a room with three chicks, and I DIDN’T get arrested for it.  Top that, jerkface!”  You know, to highlight my maturity.)  I won’t go into detail about the massage itself, except to say that it was indeed a relaxing situation.  I think it lasted nearly an hour, and I dozed off a couple of times. (*NOTE FOR GUYS*: It’s not like the “massage” videos you see on the internet.  OK, it’s kind of like the first free clip, but nothing like free clips two through four.  If that’s what you’re after, you need to go to a different part of Vegas.  FYI, this being a different type of massage is the reason that when I was laying on my back, there were no tents in the room.  If you get my drift.)  After the massage, we had a break.  A break from what, I’m not sure, but we had a break.  “Man, I can’t take that lying down relaxing anymore.  Let’s go sit for awhile!”  As we lounged in the hot tub and on the couch, we noticed that at some point during the massage, our hostess had snuck in and brought a tray of fresh fruit and some sparkling water.  The smile on Carolyn’s face was all I needed to tell me that this was exceeding her expectations.  Plus there was kiwi, and I love kiwi.  Sometimes it makes me a little gassy, but that’s what the bubbles in the hot tub were for, right?  Next item on the agenda: the facials. (*NOTE FOR GUYS*: Again, different than those you’ve seen on the ‘net)

Having never been through one of these, I wasn’t sure what to expect.  There’s even more oil involved in this than there was in the massage.  (Thankfully, I didn’t have to choose a scent this time.)  My face was smeared with more oil than Kyle Busch’s pistons.  Is there oil on pistons?  I’m not a car guy.  Anyway, it was pretty oily.  After she slathered me in the oil, she rubbed it into my skin in a hard, angry fashion, like I had slept with her sister or something.  She would place her thumbs on either side of my nose, and move them outwards in opposite directions, with a force that could only have been designed to split the skin in two and expose my nose cartilage.  After my skin valiantly remained in place, she gave up and in an apparent attempt to blind me instead, placed a steaming hot towel over my eyes - think the same level of hot as the one Babu gave Kramer in the Pakistani Dream Cafe episode of Seinfeld.  I seriously began to wonder if I owed this woman money or something.  After the towel was placed, I laid there for quite awhile with nothing happening.  Both of the facial technicians had left, and they were probably in the family room, going through our pockets, spitting in my sparkling water because of whatever it was I did to offend them, and plotting what they were to do to me next. “Hey, let’s put pickles up his nose! We’ll say it’s good for the skin, the idiot won’t know the difference!  Haha!  Hey, turn it to ESPN so his wife stabs him later.”  Well, there were no pickles involved, but this woman really hated my nose, and was out to redeem herself after failing to split the skin.  Once they returned, the towel was replaced with a new one (just as hot, in case there were a few remaining rods and cones in my eyes that had somehow not melted) and she began jabbing my nose with what felt like a particularly nasty Cat O’ Nine Tails, or perhaps an experimental military superheated Trident of some kind.  I later found out that she was in fact, using industrial tweezers - which she must have recently removed from the surface of the sun - to “excavate the blemishes” from my nose. (*NOTE FOR GUYS*:  “Excavate the blemishes” means “pop the blackheads.”  I know.  Women pay for this, yet they say the stuff WE do is gross.)  Either I have a ton of blemishes on my nose, or I slept with her sister AND I owe her money AND I poisoned her Parakeet, because she went after me with the vengeance of a Kraken.  Once at football practice, I took the crown of a linebacker’s helmet directly into my mandanglers, and that was a cakewalk by comparison.  I fought back the tears as best I could, or maybe I simply couldn’t create any because my tear ducts had been heated to the point of only producing lava.  This medieval nose torture technique went on for what seemed like weeks. If it was an inquisition, I would have told them whatever they wanted to know.  I would have admitted to being the second gunman on the grassy knoll, writing “Gigli,” and being responsible for The BCS, if she’d promise to stop.  I was seriously about ready to jump up, grab this woman by the throat and yell “WHAT’S YOUR FRICKIN’ PROBLEM, LADY?!?”  Then, mercifully, it was over.  She removed the towel from my eyes (I regained my sight slowly, like Han Solo in Return of The Jedi), and began to slather even more oil on my face.  Based on how much this woman hated me, I half expected it to be battery acid, but it was quite soothing.  After the technicians had gathered their things and left (and I THANKED them, what the hell is wrong with me?), Carolyn looked at me and said “Wow, facials really agree with you; you look fantastic!  You look like you’re wearing makeup!”  (*NOTE FOR GUYS*: If a man says this to another man, a throat punch is justified.  Several, in fact.  However, in woman world this is considered a compliment.)  She was extremely happy with the outcome for both of us, so again, I was happy. If all I have to do to give my girl some joy is endure an hour of searing, inhuman pain, I can do that.  Although, if I ever see that woman on the street, I’ll have some words for her. After I check to see she doesn’t have her tweezers, of course.  

After another hot tub break, we ordered lunch, and it was top shelf.  I had a steak salad and some lobster bisque, Carolyn ordered a panini the size of Rhode Island, and we split some sushi and a fruit & nut plate.  Every single item was delicious.  Again, kudos to Aria for an absolutely magnificent spa suite experience, and I’m not just saying that in the hopes that they’ll send me some free certificates or anything to the address they can easily get by emailing me at steve@starspangledcomedy.com or finding me on Facebook at http://www.facebook.com/stephenthomascomic.  Not at all.

The remainder of Spa Day consisted of several hot tub “treatments,” wherein different salts, herbs, and for all I know pastas were dumped into the water and we sat in it.  It smelled good, I guess, and my wife thoroughly enjoyed it, so you know what? I enjoyed it too.  The last hour in the suite was ours to do with what we wished, so we sat in the hot tub for awhile.  I did learn something about hot tubs: as much as guys like to joke about sitting near the jets for certain adolescent reasons, the bigger tubs have jets too powerful for your manstuff to be directly in front of, if you take my meaning.  Lesson learned, we stayed in the hot tub until we got a little dizzy, then moved to the couch.  She put on her robe, and I sat there in my altogether.  Hey, I had an opportunity to be naked in public, I was not going to pass it up.  After a bit, Carolyn asked if I wanted to turn the TV to ESPN.  Years of marriage alerted me that this was a trap.  “No baby, this is your weekend,” was my reply.  Seriously?  She thought I’d fall for that one?  What am I, a rookie? (*NOTE FOR GUYS*: It wasn’t during the playoffs of any major sporting season, so it’s not like I missed anything.  Timing, baybee.)  I got a smile out of her for that one.  NOW ... This is the point where if it was MY spa experience, there would have been sex.  You know, as a reward.  (Of course, if it was MY choice to go to a spa, I’d have rock hard abs, Carolyn would have actually been a man named Karl or something, and I’d be living an entirely different lifestyle.  I’d also probably be a better dresser, and more successful in Hollywood, but I digress.)  There was none.  After all, it was her weekend, and she deserved seventy two hours of not being pawed at; so even though I had spent an entire day nude in a room surrounded by various women, I parked the car.  I love my wife so much, I will not have sex with her.  At least, that’s what I’m telling myself.  

As we were gathering our things, Carolyn asked if I enjoyed the experience.  I said yes, and I meant it.  I got to spend the day with the woman I adore, doing something that makes her wildly happy - that’s the definition of a good day for me.  She asked if I thought she looked better after all of the treatments.  Now, I think my wife is beautiful no matter what, but I told her that she did look great, anyway. (*NOTE FOR GUYS*:  Notice I said she looked “great,” not “better.”  Again, what am I, a rookie?)  She was absolutely thrilled with how she looked and felt, so when we got all dolled up and went out that evening, she radiated that confident beauty around the room, and I only had eyes for her. (My eyes having cooled and resumed functioning shortly before dinner)  

Let me say this to the guys out there: if you have the opportunity to give a weekend in Couples Vegas to your woman, do it.  She’ll appreciate it more than you can possibly imagine.  You’ll also have more fun than you think.  The Dallas businessmen and the Cologne Boys may try to take away your Vegas man card, but just remind them: Eight hours naked, a dozen women in and out of the room.  That’s right, I am One Serious Bastard.  I think.


For the two previous Las Vegas Trilogy articles, click HERE for "25 year Old Vegas" and HERE for "Forty Plus Vegas."

As always, friend me on Facebook at http://www.facebook.com/stephenthomascomic, or visit my website at http://www.starspangledcomedy.com.

Forty Plus Vegas

A new day dawns over Las Vegas.  A beautiful sun rises over the picturesque mountains that surround this jewel of the desert.  Not a cloud appears to disrupt the deep, azure blue sky.  Desert flowers open their petals and lean towards the life giving ball of fire in the sky.  Birds chirp a cheery reminder that another day, that sun drenched miracle of possibilities known as a day, stretches out before us, offering an unlimited number of opportunities to create memories.  You, however, notice none of this, because you’re in a hallway somewhere on The Strip, where you’ve been for the past thirty minutes.  You’re wearing one shoe, mismatched socks, and a shirt that says “I Heart Cocker Spaniels.”  You smell like Munich in October.  You’re unsuccessfully attempting to get your hotel room key to work.  It says “Room 217” right on the card.  It says room 217 right on the card sleeve.  It says room 217 on the hotel room door.  So WHY WON’T THIS STUPID KEY WORK?!?!?!  At that moment the hotel manager appears.  It seems the occupants of room 217 called down to the front desk, saying that  they were frightened because an obviously crazy homeless person reminiscent of Ted Kaczynski was trying to break into their room.  You show the manager your key and explain that YOU are in room 217.  He says “Yes sir, you are, but you’re staying in room 217 at The Luxor.  This is Mandalay Bay.”  You, my friend, are a resident of Twenty Five Year Old Vegas.  (As a refresher course, read up on Twenty Five Year Old Vegas in Part 1 of this series, by clicking HERE)

We’re not here to discuss that Vegas today.  We’re here to discuss the other Sin City, or as I call it “Forty Plus Vegas.”  It’s the Vegas for those of us a little gray at the temples.  Truth be told, it’s not really Sin City at this age.  It’s more like Misdemeanor City, or even Comedy Traffic School To Get Those Two Points Off Your License And Keep Your Insurance Rates Down City.  I discovered Forty Plus Vegas on day three of a trip with my old friend Tom last year (and delved even deeper into it on a trip with my wife earlier this year - more on that later).  Loyal readers already know that day one with Tom did not go well as far as we can recall, and day two went even worse (“Mgggwt!” “Pllrmmmmr!” “Aye, matey” “Punches!” “Let me know if you find my spleen.”).  Day three we discovered that in Las Vegas, it’s apparently acceptable to NOT be stumbledrunk at noon.  I know, I know, it was as much of a shock to us as it is to you.  Everyone please calm down.  As I write these words, The High Council of Twenty Five Year Old Vegas is drawing up paperwork to have me officially declared a heretic and burned at the stake. (Luckily, The High Council will be on Sambuca shot #4 before the paperwork is finished, forget all about it, and embark on yet another evening of firebombing their liver and auditioning for roles on the show “Las Vegas Jailhouse;” I feel pretty safe)  Day three, after breakfast - not half-eaten PopTarts found in the sock drawer and washed down with warm remnants of last nights beer, but actual food - we had a drink.  Let me repeat that - we had “A” drink, as in “one drink,” as in “Let’s at least pretend we’re grownups, if only for a little while.”  We sat in a lounge at Palazzo with that drink, people watched, and played a fun Vegas game called “Are They Hungover Or Still Wrecked?”  Around 1PM, we rediscovered the wonders of napping.  That’s right, napping; not just for children anymore.  Tom chose the couch in our room for his slumber. (Middle aged guys will know why I pointed that out - there are couch nappers, chair nappers, and bed nappers - in Twenty Five Year Old Vegas, there are Unintentional Driving Nappers, but they don’t count here.  Rarely, if ever, will a guy stray from his preferred method of napping, except during a life threatening situation such as being held at gunpoint by terrorists, or being forced to spend Sunday afternoon at his in-laws house by terrorists, or avoiding the annual gutter cleaning)  A bed napper myself, I awoke at 3PM feeling like a human being.  It was a strange feeling to have in Las Vegas, and it was at this precise moment that the existence of Forty Plus Vegas was revealed. 

What is Forty Plus Vegas?  I’m so glad you asked....

At the most basic level, it can be explained thusly: Forty Plus Vegas involves quality, not quantity. This is the Vegas of excellent steak at The Palm, not $4.99 “Prime Rib Meatlike Product” at Rotten T Dirtbags Casino And Bowl-A-Rama.  The Vegas of Macallan, not 3-for-1 shots of rotgut Gin with a curse word in the name and a picture of a Lizard on the bottle.  The Vegas of shows that are actually worth the price of admission, and where the performers are clothed. (*Guy Note: These are not the only shows we attend, but they are in addition to the nudie shows.  Also, in Forty Plus Vegas we go to the nicer nudie bars; the “Gentlemen's Clubs” where you don’t need to wear a plastic slipcover under your clothes, and the chances of catching anything simply by breathing the air are somewhat less than 50/50)  This is the Vegas that adheres to the legend of the Rat Pack Vegas: a sportcoat or cocktail shirt instead of a tuxedo t-shirt with the sleeves ripped off, a bar or lounge where you can have a conversation without shouting yourself hoarse, mens rooms that don’t make you wonder if the monkey from Outbreak is dead in one of the stalls.  You know, fun but classy.  In Forty Plus Vegas, we actually unpack our suitcase in the room and put stuff in the drawers. (We also put our cholesterol and blood pressure medicine on the countertops) Oh, we also use coupons in this Vegas, and we’re proud of it.  You know that $ we saved on our show tickets?  We use that to buy top shelf booze, instead of forcing down a gallon of cheap stuff simply labeled “Wine,” with a taste reminiscent of sweaty dress socks on a hot Cleveland sidewalk in July.  We couldn’t drink that much these days anyway, we’re going to be up four times a night to tinkle as it is, and that much liquid will only exacerbate the problem.  

Forty Plus Vegas is the Vegas where “morning” actually exists.  The Strip is amazingly quiet and spacious before noon.  The breakfast buffets have some of the best food out there (The Sunday buffet at MGM is one of my personal favorites).  I think the food is better early in the day because the properties know us older folks are the ones who are awake at that time, so they need to raise the quality and appease us - we have good credit we’re willing to gamble, and no qualms about complaining to the management (Not nearly as much complaining as Sixty Plus Vegas, but that’s a WHOLE other story).  Vegas hotels know that at night, they can fill the all you can eat buffets with reheated, overly curried meat Taco Bell rejected, and the younger denizens won’t notice; they’re too busy making sure their sideways hat is just exactly sideways enough, debating whether to put on a sixth coat of Drakkar, and plotting how to meet the way-out-of-their-league females across the way, to care about taste.  They’d eat well seasoned Alpo without noticing.  In the morning, however, Las Vegas puts on a gourmet spread, and we’ll attack it like my Italian family - in other words, we’ll sit there forever.  We Forty Plusers will lounge at breakfast for as much as two hours, passing the time talking about the previous evening, saying things like “...and after the one young guy with the ring in his eyebrow put out the flames in his girlfriend’s hair, they took off.”  Then we laugh derisively, because we are required by law to show public disdain for the younger generation. (Memo to Twenty Five Year Old Vegas: Someday, you will too)   Mornings are a cornucopia of enjoyment in Las Vegas, though most people don’t now that for years and years.  At least once during a Forty Plus Vegas trip we’ll miss breakfast though, and head out to some of the most beautiful scenery in the world - the finely manicured golf courses of Misdemeanor City.

You know those golfers I described in the Twenty Five Plus Vegas article?  Well, we see them.  We see them because we’re early for our tee time as well, the difference being that we’re not early so we can have more beer before teeing off.  No, we’re early so we can properly stretch, and eat so we can take our blood pressure pills, and work out the many, many, many, many kinks and creaks in our joints before hitting the #1 tee. (We do this so as not to pull anything while riding in the cart and ogling the refreshment girls from a discreet yet still creepy older man distance)  Yes, we grinningly watch over our reading glasses as you younger guys stumble into the clubhouse and order shots at 6:15AM, then sit back and bet each other on which one of you will be “the hurler.”  (On a side note, I’ve won more $ on young guys hurling than any other table game in Vegas - the trick is to always bet on the guy wearing the trendiest sports team apparel; for example, this year watch for guys wearing stuff from TCU or the Arizona Diamondbacks.  These are teams that weren’t supposed to do much but have been wildly successful; by wearing their gear this guy has shown that he’s willing to do anything to gain male peer acceptance, including the rapid ingestion of a Foster Brooks level of tequila shots.  See, there’s a science to betting on vomit) By the time you whippersnappers have bailed on your tee time and retreated to your dank, partially forested $29 hotel room, we’re on the 4th fairway (OK, in the trees down the right of the fourth fairway)(OK, on the 12th fairway, which is on the opposite side of the trees that run down the right of the 4th fairway)(OK, in the sand trap along the side of the 12th fairway)(Shut up).  We’re laughing and having fun and feeling great, ordering beer and casually flirting with the beer cart girl in a way that will make her call her friends later and say something along the lines of “The dude was like my Dad’s age, it was gross!”  By the time we’ve hit the turn, you’re passed out in what is either an uncomfortable bed or a rather nice bathtub (Way to save money on that room, sport!).  Yes, we finish 18, have our 19th hole scotch, and head back to our luxurious accommodations at Palazzo or Wynn or The Hilton Grand Vacations Club to take a nap on a clean bed that feels like you’re floating on air.  

I know full well that young guys think that Forty Plus Vegas is “lame,” (or whatever word these kids use today ... is it me or do all of these damn songs sounds exactly the SAME?) but here’s the thing you young ‘uns need to know: We, the residents of Forty Plus Vegas, are OK with that.  More than OK.  We’re perfectly happy not being considered cool by guys with vomit on their shoelaces, and heading back at the end of the evening to a nice, comfortable, clean room devoid of most insects.  We’re perfectly OK with watching you parade off down the street, yelling and war whooping towards a group of girls (who subtly reach into their purse and grasp their mace as you approach) while we order another Macallan (the 18 year old this time) light an Arturo Fuente, and wonder how long it will be before you realize you left your phone on the table next to us ... and how long before we succumb to the guy temptation and start calling Guatemala, photographing certain body parts with it, and texting those photos to your friends. (We’re forty, but we’re still guys, Giggity Giggity!)  Yes, my young friends, we are perfectly OK with all of it.  Twenty Five Year Old Vegas has its place, and a wonderful place it is, but most of us have done it.  We’ve done it, and done it well.  Now, we’re more than thrilled to pass the baton to a new generation of ralphers, while we enjoy the best of what Vegas has to offer.  Oh, and it does have quite a bit to offer.  Vegas is nothing short of a world class destination, with entries among the best on the planet in the areas of entertainment, dining, shopping, sightseeing, and of course golf.  Obviously gaming is still far and away the #1 attraction - and make no mistake, Forty Plus Vegas in no way eschews the tables ... we dump our cash into the house’s coffers as much as anyone -  but it’s quite possible to have a fantastic trip without ever setting foot on a casino floor.  Eat a delectable meal, then see a spectacular show.  Shop an amazing variety of stores, for budgets of any size.  Hit a golf ball into a sky so blue it makes you dizzy.  

Then head back to The Strip and watch idiots yak on each other.  I mean come on, that’s entertaining no matter your age.

Next, An Addendum: Forty Plus Vegas With Your Spouse (Also known as “Girl Vegas”)

As always, see more of me including TV appearances, acting reel, comedy promo videos, schedule and more on my website at www.starspangledcomedy.com.  OR SUBSCRIBE TO MY BLOG VIA EMAIL THROUGH THE LINK ON THE TOP RIGHT OF THE PAGE!  IF YOU DO, THERE WILL BE MUCH REJOICING!    (YAAAAAAAAYYYYYY!) ---------------->

Twenty Five Year Old Vegas

Las Vegas.  Sin City.  What happens there, stays there.  There’s nowhere in the world like it, except the “other” Las Vegas, and I’m not talking about Laughlin.  I’m talking about the two separate Las Vegas’s (Las Vegasi?  Las Vegasen? What is the plural of Las Vegas? Los Lobos? Les Nessman? Julio IglasiVegas?  Perhaps an informed English major will let me know).  These two cities are separated not by lines on a map, but by the laugh lines and crows feet of age.  Just like in your hometown, Vegas has loud, ultra-hip, crowded places that the young congregate.  In addition, it has places with comfortable chairs, a complete acceptance of pants with loose waistbands, and significantly less floor vomit, where more seasoned individuals gravitate.  These two Sin Cities exist side by side, and their existence is as certain as taxes, death, and The Priory Of Scion (Which I’m pretty sure is either a car company or some kind of runny cheese).

I became aware of the two Vegas’s on a trip to Sin City last year with my friend Tom.  Tom and I have been friends since 1986 (a year which, according to my twelve year old daughter, was shortly after the discovery of fire) and have stayed that way through all of the ups and downs and sideways’s of our lives (Sidewaysi? Sidewaysen? SideWynona?).   Tom currently lives in Germany, where after a decade in the Army he retired and is now the morning radio personality on the American Forces Network there; CLICK HERE and check out AFN Power Connect With Tom Arnholt if you have the opportunity.  (If you ask Tom to say “Gooooood Morning Germanyyyyyyy!!!” he thinks it’s a riot.  No, really, go ahead and do it!  Nothing bad will happen, he won’t try to punch you in the rucksack or anything!)  Tom is the type of guy that other guys like to have Vegas weekends with, an old trustworthy friend who will always back you up, who speaks your particular dialect of stupid, and most importantly is always willing to buy the next round if you nurse your drink long enough and wait him out.  Being old friends, Tom and I remember Twenty Five Year Old Vegas, so on the first night of our 2010 weekend we gamely attempted to recreate those younger days.  They say “You can’t party like you did when you were younger,” but that’s not entirely true.  The truth is you can’t RECOVER like you did when you were younger.  Oh, we had no trouble that first night putting down the beer and the shots and howling at the moon, but when Day Two rolled around, we discovered that despite the Jack Daniels induced delusions the previous evening of a recaptured youth, we were indeed still men over forty.  (GUY TIP: Slamming down JD while saying “If it was good enough for Frank Sinatra, it’s good enough for me!” is nice in theory and an homage to the greatest performer of the 20th century, but you have to remember that there was only one Sinatra, and over his lifetime of being “Francis” he proved he was beyond superhuman.  We, on the other hand, can’t drink like Sinatra.  Can’t sing like Sinatra.  Heck, I even look stupid in a Fedora.  You’re not Frank, so don’t try to act like him. It’s really that simple)(The same goes for Charlie Sheen, but for entirely different reasons)  When the unholy ball of fire known as “the morning sun in Vegas” appeared the next day, I felt as if some of those “guys” Frank was rumored to have been “connected to” had been doing the lead-pipe Pesci dance on my temples. My head hurt.  My knees hurt.  My hair hurt.  I’m not entirely certain, but I think my ovaries hurt. (Ovaries are somewhere on the back of the neck, right?)(Ovari?  Ovaren?  Ovaralifragilisticexpealidocious?)  Everything hurt, folks, that’s the point I’m trying to make.  Tom?  My old friend spent the bulk of the morning staring into a neverending cup of in-room coffee and saying things like “Mrpndhstwww,” and “Uoosaaalm,” and “Ggggggpft.” (I’m paraphrasing)  We undoubtedly deserved the pain, for our brazen act of “age invading” was both unprovoked and indefensible.  The pain was no less than a message straight from God, telling us we were trespassing in the world of the young, and buddy we were not welcome.  That’s right, when paunchy interlopers with graying temples, and mortgages, and photos of our kids in the spot in our wallets where we used to store “protection” attempt to crash the party in Twenty Five Year Old Vegas, punishments from the universe are quick and severe.  So, what is Twenty Five Year Old Vegas?  I’m so happy you asked ...

LAS VEGAS #1: “Twenty Five Year Old Vegas” 

This is the Las Vegas that immediately leaps to mind when someone yells “VEGAS ROAD TRIP! WHOOOOOOO!” The Vegas of movies and beer commercials.  The Vegas of rock stars and Paris Hilton and surprisingly few underpants.  This the Vegas that stays in Vegas after you leave (Partly because you shouldn’t tell anyone what happened, and partly because there’s a Watergate sized gap in your memory tape)(Which is an odd reference to make because in 2011, the majority of people eligible for Twenty Five Year Old Vegas are far too young to have any idea what I mean by Watergate). This is the Vegas with all of the night life and three foot Yaegermeister drinks and loud music and way-out-of-your-league girls who flirt you into buying them drinks until dawn but leave with the guy in the cool car and then you wake up on the sidewalk without pants and sporting a tattoo that says “Hells Accountants - Dubuque Chapter.”  This Vegas is excruciatingly loud,  but no one seems to notice or care.  Yelling into someone’s face who is less than four inches away is not considered rude, and “dancing” with women in a manner that would get you slapped and maced in any other city is an accepted form of woo and charm.

Twenty Five Year Old Vegas is the Vegas where you need one friend who is “that guy.”  The guy who just knows people, and no one else in the group can figure out how he does it.  He’s an odd sort of Norm Peterson/Gadabout hybrid, who knows someone, some insider, no matter where you go.  He seems to have fifty six hours in his day and never sleeps.  He may or may not have been created in a lab. There’s one in every group of guys, that one that your wife/girlfriend is uneasy around, and hints that he may be a con man who’ll be played by a nattily coiffed Leo DiCaprio when they make a movie about his life.  The kind of guy that if for some reason you have a desperate need for six iguanas and a calliope, he’ll “know a place that can hook you up.”  You know that guy?  Of course you do.  That guy is essential to Twenty Five Year Old Vegas.  Without him, a night in Vegas would be just another trip to a bar.  With him, a night in Vegas is like a CIA mission - it’s a fantastic story that will get you killed if you ever tell anyone.

Twenty Five Year Old Vegas doesn’t like morning, in fact morning is its personal Kryptonite. Compared to the freedom of nighttime Vegas, morning has too many things to DO, like figuring out who that girl is, why her husband is there, where you got this Daddy Warbucks costume,  etc.  This Vegas is nearly defenseless against the “morning terrors,” but there is one way to combat it - by having limited contact with the unholy ball of fire known as the morning sun.  To reduce the power of the unholy ball, it is only seen at the end of a night, and is usually greeted with giggles, war whoops, and an unwise trip to a Dennys.  By keeping the night going directly into the next day, the darkside power of the morning is reduced, and everyone knows that Dennys has an almost supernatural force field protecting it from sanity or common sense.  At this late night snack/breakfast trip hybrid, there’s usually one member of your party who ends up asleep in the booth, blissfully unaware of the syrup mustaches and whipped butter sideburns he is given.  This is where the game of golf comes in.  The four guys who planned to play golf stumble to the parking lot and head over that way, with one passing out in the car.  Sure, we can play golf!  We can’t find our shoes or form complete sentences, and we smell like Milwaukee, but put us in a motorized golf cart and hand us those bags full of deadly weapons!  What could possibly go wrong! The remaining three arrive an hour early for their tee time and brilliantly decide to have a 6AM beer in the clubhouse, where one of them returns his breakfast “from whence it came,” if you get my drift, and joins his unconscious buddy in the car.  Seeing the surveillance-level looks they are getting from the golf course staff, the guy somewhat within shouting distance of the far fringes of sober decides that they should bail, over the loud protests of his never-say-die-or-done-drinking pal, who bursts out the door into the parking lot yelling something along the lines of “WE’RE GOING TO VEGAS!!!” They are next seen around 4PM, in a hotel room that may or may not be theirs, trying to make a meal out of the crushed pop tarts in their backpack and asking “Well, how the hell did I lose ONE sock?”

What happens then?  Well, they’ve lathered, so they rinse and repeat.  Twenty Five Year Old Vegas is a loop of debauchery where mortals attempt to become Caligulas (Caliguli?  Caligulen?  Caliguramlamadingdong?), and this is one of the larger differences between it and Forty Plus Vegas.  What is Forty Plus Vegas?  

You’ll just have to come back and see...

As always, see more of me including TV appearances, acting reel, comedy promo videos, schedule and more on my website at www.starspangledcomedy.com.  OR SUBSCRIBE TO MY BLOG VIA EMAIL THROUGH THE LINK ON THE TOP RIGHT OF THE PAGE!  IF YOU DO, THERE WILL BE MUCH REJOICING!    (YAAAAAAAAYYYYYY!) ---------------->

Viva Centerfield

I’m heading to Vegas next week, loyal readers.  I’ll be attending The World Series Of Comedy, a fantastic comedy event produced by my good friend Joe Lowers (More info at www.theworldseriesofcomedy.com)  I won’t be competing, but it looks as if I’ll be closing the show on the last night, during the Finals of the contest, so if you happen to be in town that weekend please stop on out and support live comedy by maniacally cackling at everything I say and throwing money and casino chips on stage.  In addition to making the ha-ha stew, I’ll also be writing an article on an interesting duality, of which I’ve only recently become aware; there are indeed two Las Vegas’s. There’s “Twenty Five Year Old Vegas,” and “Forty Plus Vegas.”  I’ve lost money in both, but that’s not the point.  One Vegas involves single malt Scotch, high end cigars, and playing golf.  The other Vegas involves cheap beer in three foot containers, multiple visits to the $1 street burrito buggy, talking about playing golf and possibly even making a tee time, but somehow never making it to the course, because crawling out of bed for your 2:30PM start is WAY too early.  Between now and next week, I’ll be comparing and contrasting these two Sin Cities in detail, in preparation for my highly technical, Nobel-esque scientific experiment in Vegas next week.  Yes, it’s science, and the hunger for and gathering of knowledge for the good of mankind is the only reason for the trip.  What? I love science! Science rules!

Starting tomorrow: Twenty Five Year Old Vegas.

For today, I thought I’d do a monologue joke style blog entry, since I haven’t done one of those for awhile.  Following are assorted snippy comments that lodged in my brain while reading the news.  Please send all hate mail to steve@starspangledcomedy.com.  Someone will get back to you in 6-8 weeks.

...joke me in, Coach...

A judge in France has ordered a man to pay his ex-wife $14,000 for failing to sexually satisfy her during their marriage.  Upon hearing this, Lisa Marie Presley immediately filed a claim to be awarded Michael Jackson’s entire estate.

Staff and students at the University of Massachusetts set a new world record for the world’s largest stir-fry, which was over 4000 pounds.  Shortly thereafter, the world record for speed-eating 4,000 pounds of stir-fry was set by another group of UMass students, who had been attending the nearby “Legalize Cannabis Rally.”

Statistics show that China now has one of the highest suicide rates in the world.  Man, we are falling behind them in EVERYTHING.

Green Day lead singer Billy Joe Armstrong was removed from a Southwest Airlines flight last week after he refused to pull up his sagging pants.  OK, how bad are Green Day’s sales lately that he has to fly Southwest?

A leaking gasoline pipeline in Kenya's capital exploded this week.  According to Fox News, none of President Obama’s hometown family or friends was injured in the blast.

According to a new international poll, America was voted the world’s “Coolest Nationality.”  The same poll, which apparently consisted of high school seniors, voted Canada “Nationality Most Likely To Hang Out With The Coolest Nationality,” China “Best Nationality To Cheat Off Of During A Math Test,” and France was simply voted “The Smelly Kid.”

The Native American Cherokee National Council has sent letters to about 2,800 descendants of slaves once owned by its members, revoking their citizenship and reducing their tribal benefits.  To cushion the blow, the Council did offer them all $50 in match play at the craps tables and 2-for-1 buffet tickets.

Using an exoplanet-hunting telescope, scientists have discovered what they call a “Super Earth,” a planet that could support life.  Astronomers say this planet, called “HD 85512 b,” already has many things necessary for human life, including oxygen, water, and over 4,000 Starbucks.

Nearly 70 people in New York City were injured by gunfire over the Labor Day weekend.  Mayor Bloomberg praised the NYPD for their performance, as that’s about 1/3 of the gunfire injuries on a typical New York City weekend.

A new survey shows that 80 percent of people engage in “dirty talk” during sex.  Of the other 20%, 14% engage in “romantic talk” during sex, 4% remain silent, and the remaining 2% make vaguely disturbing erotic remarks involving Ed Asner. 

A man in Montreal was arrested after he broke into Celine Dion’s house, ate a pastry from the refrigerator and poured a bath for himself.  This proves beyond a shadow of a doubt just how freaking weird Celine Dion fans are.

This year’s Muscular Dystrophy Association telethon, which was the first without Jerry Lewis as host, earned 2 million dollars more than last year’s program.  Asked for comment, Lewis replied “MAVENCLAVENAGOWYYYEEEEE!” 

An 81 year-old woman in England who is a right-to-die advocate has tattooed “Do Not Resuscitate” on her chest.  Imagine the disappointment of the young, horny tattoo artist who was told “Hey, there’s a chick out here that wants you to ink her knockers.”  OR Actually, she wanted the tattoo on her knees, but she’s 81, so....

The Federal Trade Commission said that two mobile phone apps that claim to treat acne do not work.  Investigators are most curious as to how someone dumb enough to believe acne can be treated by an app can even afford a mobile phone.

As always, see more of me including TV appearances, acting reel, comedy promo videos, schedule and more on my website at www.starspangledcomedy.com.

SUBSCRIBE TO MY BLOG VIA EMAIL THROUGH THE LINK ON THE TOP RIGHT OF THE PAGE!  IF YOU DO, THERE WILL BE MUCH REJOICING!    (YAAAAAAAAYYYYYY!) ---------------->

I Love You, But If That Goes In...

“I’ve never had a hole-in-one.  Never had an Ace.  Not one.  Thirty-plus years playing golf (not continuously, of course), and I’ve never experienced writing a “1” on my scorecard, excepting the times it’s the first digit of an “11” and followed an expletive-filled sentence about how unfair the previous hole was, or how poorly the club manufacturer did their job.  I’ve come close - hitting the flagstick a few times, getting within a foot or so on numerous occasions, and even lipping out once (“Stupid Callaway 7-iron!!!  I should have bought the hybrid!!!).  Despite all of those close calls, I’ve never holed out from the tee.  I’ve witnessed holes-in-one, both on television and live.  I’ve slapped the high fives, jumped up and down, and yelled to everyone within earshot a distinct description who exactly is ‘Da Man,‘ but I’ve never been Da Man myself.  That’s why I’m here today, Your Honor.  See, since my wife had a hole-in-one right in front of me during her very first ever round of golf, I had no choice but to do what I did.  Am I sorry for it? Of course I am; she was the love of my life and my soul mate, and I miss her terribly.  However, any golfer will tell you that I was completely justified in my actions.  It had to be done.  I throw myself on the mercy of the court.”  That’s the speech I was practicing in my head as I watched my wife Carolyn’s tee shot roll towards the hole.

I’ve been a golfer since the late 70’s, when my Father first took me out on a beautiful expanse of green real estate in Ohio, and taught me the fundamentals of the game. (“Keep your head down!  Lock your elbow!  Lift your head up!  Why is your elbow so stiff? Harder!  Swing harder, so it goes farther!”)  Since I became a father myself I don’t get to play as much as I’d like, a common situation most middle aged, middle class married guys like me can understand.  I mean, it’s difficult to justify a habit as expensive and time consuming as golf when you’re responsible for a family. (“You’re OK with the kids this afternoon, right honey?  I’m going to go drop $200 we don’t have on a round of golf; see you in seven hours, when I get back I’ll reek of scotch and be ready for romance! MWAH!”)  It’s OK that I don’t get to play that often, I love my family and would rather spend time and money on them as far as they know, but I still miss the game.  Then two years ago, I got the idea that if I could get Carolyn - who had never picked up a club in her life - into golf, then I’d be able to squeeze in a few more rounds.  Yes!  Golf with your spouse!  Why hasn’t anyone thought of this before?!?!  I’m a genius!  The idea was obviously gold, I just had to sell it right. *TIP FOR GUYS OUT THERE, THE RIGHT WAY TO SELL IT: “Honey, I’d love it if we could find an activity that will allow us to spend more quality time together, outside in beautiful scenery, getting some exercise and having fun, just the two of us.  I think it will strengthen our marriage.”  WRONG WAY: “Hey toots, let’s start playing golf together so I can play more golf.  They have short skirts you can wear while we play.  Bring beer.”  (Just a “Guy FYI,” because guys should always help other guys in situations like this.)

So after several tequilas, a notarized document she made me sign in triplicate regarding “help around the house” or something to that effect, and more groveling than I’m proud to admit, we agreed to begin playing golf together.  Following a few lessons with a local pro (an entirely separate, wonderful and not at all aggravating experience I’ll tell you about another time), we decided that my beautiful bride was ready to tackle the local executive course.  For those who don’t know, an executive course is one that consists of all short, par 3 holes.  These smaller tracks are so named because they’re often used by executives who aren’t really golfers but are only there to swindle other executives out of cash, or more likely to team up with other executives to swindle complete strangers out of THEIR cash. (Executive courses are big in Hollywood and Washington D.C.)  At any rate, all of the holes are short, which makes it easier for beginners, as the longer distance clubs are often far more difficult to consistently hit solid.  In some cases, and here I am certainly not referring to myself, it can take over thirty years to even gain a marginal semblance of “consistency” with the big sticks.  So we paid our fees, got our pull-carts, and off we went together, laughing and joking like a couple of newlyweds, when in reality we were a married couple embarking on one of the most frustrating games on Earth, a game which consistently drives the best of friends to sniping and yelling at each other, armed with two bags full of deadly weapons of varying  degrees of loft.  (“I’m a genius!  Why hasn’t anyone thought of this before?!?!”)  I mean, we’ve been together over a decade, and any married person will tell you that no matter how in love you are, after that long anything can be fodder for an argument.  Anything.  (“Why are you yelling at me?” “Because you’re breathing so darn LOUD!!!”)  So together on a golf course, in the heat, I’m not sure if we expected to hear the theme from Love Story, but I swear I heard The Imperial March from Star Wars as we approached the first tee.  

Actually, I’m joking; the day wasn’t bad at all. and we had a lot of fun.  There was some typical married couple sniping here and there (“The way you’re wearing that glove is annoying.” “Oh, I have a white ball so now YOU have to have a white ball too?” “Stop walking so darn LOUD!!!”) but on the whole we enjoyed ourselves.  She’s been with me for over a decade, folks; even on a golf course, the universe can’t really aggravate her much more.  We stepped up to #1, and she wanted me to go first.  You know, with over three decades of experience, she wanted me to show her how it’s done.  I was supposed to be “the man,” and show my woman how this game is played.  So I did.  I checked the wind, adjusted my glove, set my stance and grip perfectly, and walloped that poor Titleist as deep into the woods as I can hit a 9-iron. (“Stupid Callaway!!”) Following my manly lead, Carolyn drilled her shot to a height of approximately 1/8th of an inch, so hard it killed almost all of the plant life in the first fifty feet in front of the tee.  Seriously, the the surviving blades of grass were singed and smoking.  A squirrel poked his head out of the charred remains of his hole and coughed “Jeez lady, that was my HOUSE!” Not exactly the start we’d envisioned, but we were off!  That’s how it went for five holes, both of us missing every green, and mis-hitting shots so badly the ball ricocheted off the clubface at angles that physics professors will tell you are impossible.  It didn’t matter though, we were together, and we were having fun.  Then we hit the 6th tee, and she nearly bought the farm.

Up front I told you I’ve never had a hole-in-one, and this hole was no different, although I did manage to find the green with my tee shot.  Looking back, that may have been the problem.  Had I continued to pump balls into the woods, Carolyn may have kept hitting hers all over as well, but with me on the putting surface she apparently decided it was time to step it up.  My beautiful bride slapped one that headed for the flag like it was laser guided.  Mind you, it never got more than ten feet off the ground, but the line was dead on perfect.  It landed about thirty yards short of the green.  It bounced perfectly.  It took a majestic hop that looked like something Tiger would have hit back when he was still catting around and on top of his game.  It checked a bit as it crossed the fringe, took two more PGA-looking bounces and began to roll, directly towards the hole.  My wife got excited, as she should have; it was her first really good shot.  She had every right to jump up and down and start yelling “Oh my gosh!  Oh my gosh!  Look!  Look!!!”  However, as I watched it head towards the hole - and this ball looked for all the world like it was going in, there was no way it was going to miss, no way, no how - I didn’t get excited, but instead began to grow sad.  Not because she was going to get an Ace while I never have, but because I was going to miss her terribly after I killed her with my 8-iron, because once it went in that’s exactly what I was going to do.  I was calm about it, calmer that you’d think; like I said, any golfer will tell you “it had to be done,” but I was still sad.  After all, this is my wife, my favorite person in the universe, the mother of our child, not to mention the person I stood before God, our families, and Mickey Mouse (another story for another time) and swore to love honor and obey forever. So you can see why it was upsetting, I mean there was going to be a big gap in my life, especially in the area of household chores. Kidding! (Feminists, address hate mail to steve@starspangledcomedy.com) Granted, there was a silver lining, as if I could get acquitted and collect the life insurance money it would allow me to play FAR more golf, but I would still miss her on most days.  

With all of this running through my head in a matter of seconds,  I began to prepare the speech I mentioned previously, as well as my entire line of defense.  Hopefully I would get a married male judge who was a single digit handicapper, or even better, a married male D.A. who had also never had a hole-in-one (“Not enough evidence to prosecute!”).  I would instruct my defense attorney to try and stock the jury with names from the local country clubs.  I planned to call Phil Mickelson, Ernie Els, fellow Central Ohioan Jack Nicklaus, and any other married golfer I could find as experts for the defense, to say that I simply had no ... other ... choice.  I was even running through which local car dealership might give me the best deal on a white Bronco.  Then, just when I was beginning to wonder what was an appropriate amount of time to wait before starting to date again, a miracle occurred.  The ball began to slow.  The line was still perfect, but the speed was now in question.  It slowed further, and as my amazing lady who should remember that I love her when she reads this began to yell “Go!  Keep going!  GOOOO!!” I saw a chance for our life together to continue.  Then, the ball stopped.  No more than three inches from the cup, it stopped.  “NOOOOOOO!!!!” I yelled, immediately morphing from murderous star of a future Movie Of The Week on Lifetime Network back into loving, doting husband.  Me: “Aw, Geez!  That was so CLOSE, honey!!  That would have been so  fantastic, and I would have been so happy for you!!!!!”  Carolyn: “Did you see it? Did you see that shot?!?! It almost went in!!”  Me: “I did see it sweetheart, that was awesome! Great shot, baby!!!”  (I’ve had some acting classes)  

So that’s the story of how my wife hit the best shot of her golf career (thus far) and nearly lost her life because of it.  Of course, I’m kidding about the part where I almost bludgeoned her with my 8-iron, as far as anyone can legally prove beyond a reasonable doubt.  Since that near fateful day, we’ve golfed together numerous times, including on a regular length course, and it’s been great.  We laugh, we spend time together on some of the most beautiful real estate in the world, and I get to swing the sticks more often than before. (Score) We’ve never faced that life threatening situation again, however.  Her game has improved tremendously, to the point where I believe the local squirrels have stopped putting “Carolyn is playing golf today, for your own safety put up the storm windows and stay inside!” into their newsletters, but she’s never come that close to an Ace again.  It’s probably best that way.  Now that she knows the consequences of a shot that good, she’ll no doubt be prepared.  (“Honey, why is the carving knife in your golf bag?” “Because you’re breathing so darn LOUD in my backswing!”)  By the way, she made the putt.  It was her first and only birdie.  I was genuinely thrilled for her.  After all, I’ve had lots of those.




*As always, see more of me including TV appearances, acting reel, comedy promo videos, schedule and more on my website at www.starspangledcomedy.com. Or follow my blog to the right -----> of the page and help get my numbers up!

Of Mice And Golf: Traditions

A bit different direction today, loyal readers.  

I’m here today to discuss golf traditions.  Not the Augusta kind of traditions unlike any other, but the traditions experienced by those of us who check our bag at the turn just to make sure we have enough balls to finish the round.  For example, I live in Southern California, so a weekend round of golf will invariably bring out two traditions that occur here: 1) Obtaining a second mortgage on your home to pay the greens fees, and 2) Having time to completely pay off that 30-year note in monthly installments while waiting for the round to finish. (Seriously? You’re going to look for that ball in the woods for 8 minutes, with groups stacking behind you? Hey Sir Hackalot, you spent 8 minutes looking for the one in the woods on the LAST hole - They sell them in packs of a dozen, take a quick look, drop, and then MOVE ALONG!)  Anyway, every round of golf brings out its own unique traditions, tied to either the people you’re playing with, the calendar, or the course itself.  I’m musing on golf traditions because I recently went back to Ohio to visit family, and dug a round of divots with my Father and my brother Mike.  (Also because I enjoy musing.  Sometimes I’ll even ruminate, but it’s medical ruminating approved by the state of California.)  When the men of my family get together and strategically plant Titleists deep into wooded terrain, we have several traditions.  My personal favorite is that my Father always pays.  I’m in my forties and Mike is in his thirties, but every time I see Dad pull out his American Express card I get that warm, “Child at Christmas” feeling, like I’m home again!  (This is inevitably followed at some point by that other home again feeling that I’ll apparently never outgrow, along the lines of “Teenager out past his curfew, getting yelled at and experiencing levels of guilt I thought I’d put behind me.”)  However, the tradition that made me giggle on this particular trip was the 18th tee, or as we call it “The 18th Tee.”  

Weekend warriors are familiar with allowing each other a mulligan on the 1st tee, but for over three decades my family has made the finishing hole memorable by granting a special mully on one condition - that the first cut you take on 18 is an “Overswing with every ounce of strength you have to the point where you could possibly separate rib cartilage” event.  I’m talking a Happy Gilmore  level of approach, if Happy had been hyped on Red Bull and ‘roids.  I’m not sure why we continue to do this, as far as I can recall no one has ever hit a single decent shot from The 18th Tee in over thirty years.  (Now that I think about it, I’m fairly certain we’ve never even found any of the balls we managed to hit.  Those that make it airborne usually land in the woods or multiple fairways away, with some leaving the grounds altogether and entering nearby residential or dining establishments, possibly disrupting important business meetings. “Well Mr President, I think we have an agreement for a balanced budget amendm...” ~CRASH!!!~ “This is outrageous!  Back to committee!”)

This particular trip, we played at Tartan Fields, the Central Ohio country club my Father recently joined.  I must say up front that Tartan Fields is an extremely nice course, well laid out and maintained, challenging, with picturesque fairways and postage stamp greens that will punish a wayward iron but reward a solid approach ... as far as I know; since I never had a “solid approach” I’m simply assuming that point.  It’s so classy there that the very nice young ladies in the beer ... I mean “refreshment” carts ... obviously considered Mike & I creepy old guys, (and not the normal wealthy creepy old guys they see, which probably confused them).   In other words, it’s the type of place I'm normally not permitted.  Anyway, when we arrived at 18, the “Swing Like Charlie Brown” tradition took place.  Dad found the trees down the left side, Mike drilled one into the water so hard I’m sure the greenskeepers had to restock the fish (“Wonder what killed them all?” “I don’t know, but this one has a Titleist lodged in its gills.”) and then it was my turn.  I set my feet, adjusted my grip, and  - trying to ignore the snickering going on behind me - ripped at it with all of my multiple “refreshment” enhanced might.  I mean I had myself a cut, folks; like something you’d see from a guy swinging a tree trunk ballbat in a Bugs Bunny cartoon.  This Herculean windmill was accompanied by a sound that can only be described as "John Belushi in Samurai Delicatessen meets a velociraptor."  I spun almost 360 degrees.  I nearly fell down.  I may have separated my left shoulder.  I’m pretty sure I blacked out for a second.  The clubhead speed was so great it may have ripped a hole in the universe and created a time travel vortex.  Folks, I went after that dimpled white sphere in a Sheen-esque frenzy.  The ball?  No one knows.  It sailed right, WAY right, like an extra fuel tank jettisoned from the Space Shuttle, and then it disappeared.  I’d like to think no one was hurt when it landed, but I can’t be sure. (“Wonder what killed him? “I don’t know, but there’s a Titleist lodged in his gills.” “Why does he have gills?”)  Anyway, when the laughter subsided and my left arm stopped throbbing with pain, I hit my real tee shot and we finished the hole. (Drilled a 15 footer to save par and tie the match with Dad.  Thought you’d want to know.)

What’s my point?  The point is this:   Family traditions of all types are about creating memories, and family golf traditions are no exception. The thing the three of us will remember from that round of golf is The 18th Tee. No one will remember the big drive I hit on 7, or Dad’s sand save on 12, but the men of my family will always be able to laugh about the time I nearly decapitated myself on The 18th Tee.  We laugh about 18th Tees from decades ago, and this latest installment will be a dandy addition to that quilt of stories.  If you’re not laughing and enjoying yourself - especially during a family round - then you really don’t understand golf at its core.  Do we try to play our best, always improve, work on the game, and most importantly create new and inventive expletives?  Of course we do - the constant frustration of golf, and our attempts to overcome it, is part of the appeal for us 15’s (and higher).  Above all though, golf is supposed to be fun, and if you can make fun a tradition anywhere and everywhere in your life, then that number on the scorecard is irrelevant.  You win.




*As always, see more of me including TV appearances, acting reel, comedy promo videos, schedule and more on my website at www.starspangledcomedy.com.  Send me a Facebook friend request HERE, or connect with me on a professional LinkedIn level HERE.  Or of course you can follow my blog THERE ------>

Triple-A Nudity And Badminton

To those of you blaming one political party or the other for being the cause of current financial issues: You are the exact reason Washington DC continues to get away with all of this crap.  You are the engine that drives the insanity.  Wake up. (What? I have to be funny all of the time?  Oh alright ... booga booga booga)

Actually, I’ve decided to only write one, long “column like” blog intro per week now.  The remaining days will have a short intro unless I’m inspired or receive far more frequent nude/semi-nude photo submissions from you, my loyal readers.  It’s an attempt to appear more professional, or at least as professional a humor blog containing numerous underwear references can appear.  Take the intro from last Friday, for example.  I had something important and lengthy to discuss with Montel Williams, so I did; however, it’s difficult to come up with something silly and completely without meaning or redeeming social value to write about every day, especially with Congress being on vacation.  I’d hate to have loyal readers get a feeling of disappointment, like when you see a movie on HBO that’s rated R, but only for “Brief Nudity” instead of long stretches of nudity, which means you’ll have to really pay attention so you don’t briefly miss it.  You know what I’m saying?

By the way, still nothing from Montel.  

As always, see more of me including TV appearances, acting reel, comedy promo videos, schedule and more on my website at www.starspangledcomedy.com.

... say hello to my little jokes ...

A deaf man has accused a nudist park in upstate New York of violating federal law by refusing to provide him with a sign-language interpreter.  Let me understand this - he gets to see naked women AND doesn’t have to listen to them talk ... and he’s MAD about it?  Someone needs to immediately revoke his ManClub card, please.

The US credit downgrade is having worldwide repercussions.  Even Nancy Pelosi has cut back to one eye-job per week.  (I’m kidding! Nancy would raise taxes on her own mother before she cut back! Ha ha!)

Treasury Secretary Tim Geithner says that Standard & Poors “showed terrible judgement” in downgrading the US.  Geithner claims that according to his detailed analysis via Turbo Tax, everything should be just fine.

President Obama said today that the US is “still a AAA country.”  Yes, and if the idiots in Washington would get out of our way, maybe We The People could get us back to the Major Leagues.

Plaxico Burress participated in his first day of camp with the New York Jets today.  Coaches said the starting Wide Receiver job was his.  You know, unless he shoots himself in the leg.  Figuratively speaking, of course.  OR Head Coach Rex Ryan said he was “Impressed with how quick his feet were today. Mmmmm ... feet ...”

Tourists can now get fresh baguettes from vending machine in France.  To be treated like crap, however, you’ll still need a real, live French person.

Diana Nyad was swimming strongly in her attempt to swim from Cuba to Florida across the straights today.  Apparently the only trouble she’s encountered has been the various rafts passing her on the right, screaming “Get out of the fast lane, slowpoke!”  OR To make the swim realistic, CBP agents plan to begin shooting at her when she gets within 200 yards of the beach.

Chinas’ hopes for a world title took a hit when their top ranked player was upset in the first round of the World Badminton Championship.  Sport journalists around the world were shocked to learn that badminton has a world championship.

THREE BAD WRESTLER NAMES

• George “The Mediator” Steele
• The Soft Spoken Salamander
• Ricky The Lugnut