Giving Thanks

I'm not sure why but I always feel like its more appropriate to give thanks near Christmas (or Gheorghemas) than Thanskgiving. Maybe its the extra time off I usually have or the boozy celebrations or just the whole vibe of lights and gifts and friends and family. Whatever the reason(s), this is where my head is currently at so here's some of what I'm thankful for:

1. Vince Staples- Known on Twitter as Crippy Teigen, the Long Beach based MC is a breath of fresh air in the current era of rap. I'm not one of those old guys who hates all the current rap. Shit changes and that's ultimately good for the genre. Am I listening to a lot of Lil Pump and Ski Mask the Slump God? No. But I loved Young Thug's "Jeffrey" and can get down with a good bit of Kodak Black's catalog. All that said, Staples is a throwback. He's a shit talking west coast MC who has a great personality and an old school style. I've been a fan for a while. His latest album "FM!" is probably his most complete and has been on regular rotation for me over the past month. Check it out. His old shit isn't bad either.




2. New Orleans- I'm preaching to the choir here but, god damn, that city is great. My wife and I ditched the kids and had a long, boozy weekend there just before Thanksgiving. It was fucking glorious. It's one of the few places that I'd consider leaving my current beachside locale for. We love it so much that we each got Fleur De Lis tattoos whilst in the Crescent City. She's been asking for matching tattoos for years and I've shut that shit down at every turn. New Orleans is kind of our spot though, so I finally demurred. A couple new recommendations for those of you planning return trips to The Big Easy: Turkey and the Wolf for lunch, Peche for a fantastic array of seafood and Seaworthy for more oysters than you'll ever need.

3. SNKRS- It's no secret that I have shoe problem. No matter how hard I try I can't stop buying them. They're just so fucking pretty. SNKRS has only made this issue worse. Not only does this Nike app make it incredibly easy to buy shoes with the tap (or fingerprint) of a button, but its also constantly alerting you to new, exclusive offers. Just last week I grabbed a pair of Jordan Concord 11s whilst watching my daughter at the local rec basketball league tryouts. If I had to guess, I'd say I've bought about a dozen pairs of shoes off the SNKRS app in the past year. I REGRET NOTHING.

4. Old Ghost Tattoo- Its also no secret that I love tattoos. I got my first one in Hampton, VA when I was 18 and fresh out of my parents house. It's been a love affair ever since. Eventually I found a local artist whose tastes meshed with my own and we've been working together ever since. We're going on 20 years now. I'm pretty well covered at this point. Gainful employment is the only thing that's slowed me down over the last few years. If you ever see me with a huge neck tattoo you'll know I hit it big in the market. Anywho, through all the years of money spent, body art discussed and painful needling, I saved one spot...my back. Late last year I finally took that body part on. It was my 40th birthday present to myself. Last night it was finished. I couldn't be happier with it, or to be done with it.

5. Reggie- Last summer we had two Pit Bulls. Tinsley and Mayfield. Tinsley was approaching 16 and had been with me since college. Mayfield was 8 and a dog we'd had since my wife and I first moved in together. Within a few short months Tinsley died of old age and Mayfield died suddenly of cancer. It was tough on all of us. Especially my youngest who'd never known a house without the tip tap of a dog's feet and the slobbery kisses of a dog's love. Fast forward to February and a friend of mine posted a video of one of his new litter of bulldogs on his Instagram. I fell in love. I showed the video to my wife and she too fell in love. Within hours we had wired him money and purchased the pooch. One problem: the dog is a bulldog and I am a Gator. I told my wife that the only way this could work was if I had full naming rights. This bulldog had to be a Gator. That's why we have a female bulldog named Reggie. It's odd but it works.

Happy Gheorghemas, y'all.

Gheorghemas Interlude: Shit I've Had to Drink This Month

I was in Louisville last night, at a generally nondescript Marriott, except for one thing. It had an exceptional bourbon menu. After perusing it for way too long, I settled on a Four Roses Single Barrel. It was remarkable smooth for a 100 proof tipple. Several whiskies didn't carry menu prices, listed only at 'Market Price'. I asked after the Pappy 15, only to stifle a laugh when I was told that that market rate was $175 per pour. My company was paying, but my hypocrisy apparently does know some bounds.

It's been a good December for me, tipple-wise. And so as we wait for Day 5, soon to be here, a brief rundown of the terrific stuff I've had to drink of late.

Mr. KQ treated me, Marls, and Jerry to a tasting of several amazing beers from Aslin and The Veil, including Selfish Predator from the former, and Dirt Nap, and Dirt Dirt Nap Nap from the latter's Richmond location.

The Richmond area is also home to Center of the Universe Brewing, which makes Shut Up, described as an Imperial White Stout. At 11%, it gets hard to describe after more than one. But it tastes amazing, all vanilla and warmth. I'm drinking one right now.

I take my daughter to cheerleading practice many Tuesdays, and I complain about the 25-minute one-way drive. But only to make a point. In reality, I don't mind, because her gym is a stone's throw from Ocelot Brewing. And a friend of mine did the design and installation of Ocelot's HVAC system, so he gets free beer for life. He meets me there a lot, so I drink for free, as well. Their Lean on Me double IPA is in my kitchen, unlike Cliff Clavin.

Finally, I was in Minneapolis earlier in the month, and my new team bought me two four-packs of Surly Furious. Sucking up to the boss? Absolutely. Did it work? Equally so. At least until they miss their number in the first quarter.

May your imbibing be as good as mine has been this happy season.

The Twelve Days of Gheorghemas: Day 4

On the fourth day of Gheorghemas, Big Gheorghe gave to me

Four Badass Women

Three(+) Decades of Love's Labor
Two Things You're Needing
And a Fat Guy in a Sweet T

The patriarchy is long overdue for kick in the teeth, and Shlara lights today's Gheorghemas candles to highlight just a few women who've put on their kicking boots.

The future is female Gheorghies. Embrace it.

I know you appreciate, admire and honor all of the women in your immediate orbit. That’s great. Don’t stop. (If you want to know what that looks like, check out Teej’s social media feed to see how he supports his wife.)

In fact, consider doing more to show them that you have their back. How? Make it your Gheorghemas resolution to do more to champion them and other women that you don’t know personally. Start with these four badass women.

Emma Gonzalez



Emma captured America’s attention with her passion, determination, and raw emotion following the Parkland school shooting. She is one of the most recognizable Parkland student leaders who refused to let America offer their thoughts and prayers alone. She also partnered with students from traditionally ignored and forgotten schools to build a platform and empower students across the country to share their story and advocate for their own safety. Emma is changing the conversation in this country around guns. And, at 18, she’s only getting started.

Aly Raisman



Aly was a champion in the gym and she brought that grit to the courtroom in January to lead a group of 100+ women in testimony to convict Larry Nassar and hold USA Gymnastics accountable. Pure courage. Unbelievable strength. I’m grateful that she used her voice. ESPN agrees.

Brittany Packnett



You probably don’t know Brittany, but you should. She’s a Teach for America executive and the co-founder of Campaign Zero, a policy platform to end police violence. She’s one of my favorite hosts/guests on the Pod Save America/Crooked Media roster of shows because she makes me think and laugh. We all need to listen to what Brittany is saying.

Nancy Pelosi



Nancy is a boss. She is one of the most effective House Speakers in history. (Before you dismiss this idea, go ahead and do your research. You’ll see I’m right.) She knows how to listen, build coalitions, and get to consensus. Even in the minority, she negotiates winning deals. She gets shit done. And while the patriarchy is constantly taking shots at her, she just brushes that dirt off her shoulder and keeps it moving to benefit the country.

There are only four women here because I volunteered for Day 4. There are many, many more women you don’t know about, and you should. So, this Gheroghemas, I invite you to open your eyes to the women outside of your orbit and start your own list of badass women to admire. Ask the women in your orbit who they admire. Make this a habit. Your life will be better for it.

Gheorghemas Interlude: Enter the Tiny

Live from the offices of NPR in Washington, DC, a Gheorghemas concert was recorded last week celebrating 25 years since the release of Enter the Wu-Tang (36 Chambers). Lots of fun little touches here, including stringed instrument accompaniment, RZA adjusting on the fly to reflect support for the #metoo movement, Young Dirty Bastard taking his father's place, and a poetic interlude.

Give yourselves 20 minutes, in keeping with the spirit of the season.

The Twelve Days of Gheorghemas: Day Three

On the third day of Gheorghemas, Big Gheorghe gave to me:

Three(+) Decades of Love's Labor
Two Things You're Needing
And a Fat Guy in a Sweet T

We asked the G:TB Research Staff to review the previous years of Gheorghemas celebrations to see if we'd ever before had a guest post during this most sacred of seasons. They didn't answer, because they're like the rest of us, lazy and distracted, and probably half in the bag. So we'll just go on memory. Honorary Gheorghie Dave Fairbank grabs the conch to reminisce and celebrate a life's work.

If I interpret this site correctly, Gheorghemas is a celebration of gratitude and goofballery, two cornerstones of my adult life. My blessings are abundant and landed me among people and places that supported and challenged me, and often were much fun to be around.

A young Dave Fairbank

I was a sportswriter for 33 years, the last 30 at the newspaper in Newport News, Va. The job allowed me to Peter Pan my way through adulthood, writing about games and athletes and coaches. I still kind of marvel that such jobs exist. Don’t get me wrong. Sports moves the needle like few other pursuits. It rarely disappoints and provides thrills and drama and countless stories. I saw an inordinate amount of talent come through Hampton Roads, much of it in the formative stages because the area has no major league sports. I was fortunate to be able to call my own exit, increasingly rare in a profession where people are being thrown overboard like it’s Pirates of the Caribbean.

The fact that I became a sportswriter at all was a kind of happy accident. I can pretty much assure you that it wouldn’t have happened today, given the path I followed. I graduated from the University of Maryland in 1980 with a liberal arts degree, which is every bit as marketable as you might imagine, and no idea what I wanted to do. I had never written for a school paper, had never taken a journalism class. To this day, I have no idea what they teach in J-School. Well, that’s not exactly accurate; I have an idea what they teach, but I know zero specifics about methods and training.

I banged around at odd jobs out of school. I substitute taught, at a time when subs were more babysitters than teachers. I parked cars at a couple of local racetracks. My dad took pity on me for a time at the company he helped run, a small home heating oil and gas outfit, where I was the AMC Pacer of salesmen. Mostly, I watched friends jump into the working world, taking jobs that looked like slow death. I even halfway considered law school, but was so serious about it that I went to a Parliament Funkadelic show the night before the LSAT. I so badly tanked the test the next morning that I don’t even think I bothered to look at my scores.

One constant was that I read newspapers – the Baltimore Sun, the Washington Post, and the hometown paper, the Capital in Annapolis, Md. I did a little traveling while in college and just afterward, and I read local papers everywhere I went. I was struck by the crappy storytelling in many small-town papers. Fueled by a combination of ignorance and arrogance, I began to think: I can do that. I reached out to local papers and asked if I could write for them. Let’s see some of your work, editors said, and what credentials do you have? Problem was, I had none.

I had just about given up when I reached out to a tiny, weekly paper in southern Maryland with a sports department that consisted of one woman, who also did a couple of other jobs at the paper. She said, sure, I can use the help. And because it was a weekly and my deadline was a couple of days early, there was time for her to fix whatever I botched. She assigned me to write about local high school athletes and teams. She mostly liked what I wrote and paid me the princely sum of 50 cents per column inch.

Also a young Dave Fairbank

Armed with a handful of clips, I drove to the Washington Post one mid-week morning, figuring to ask someone in the sports department to read my stuff and to offer suggestions. No appointment, no idea who to talk to or even who might be in the office. In other words, an absurdly stupid idea. Yet for some reason, the security guard allowed me upstairs, and somebody in the newsroom pointed me toward the sports department. The only people in the department I saw that morning were former outdoors columnist and sailing writer Angus Phillips and a very young John Feinstein. I saw Phillips first, introduced myself, told him that I needed some guidance about whether I could do the job, and asked if he could help. He couldn’t have been more gracious. He called to Feinstein to come over and read some. Feinstein protested at first and said, “Angus, I’m a terrible editor. I won’t be any help.” But Phillips insisted, saying something to the effect of, look, this kid has driven all the way here and wants to know if he might have a future in this business; the least we can do is read his stuff. They were both very encouraging. Their primary criticism was that I was too wordy and needed to be more concise. They asked how much I made. I told them. They were aghast. “Fifty cents an inch?!? Forget what we just said. Write longer.” Years later, I told Feinstein that story and that he had helped motivate me. He didn’t remember, but was amused and basically apologized for helping steer me toward such a dismal career path.

Anyway, those first stories landed me a job freelancing for the Annapolis paper, which I did for about a year. The two younger guys in the sports department at the time had both worked at a small daily in Cambridge, Md., for the longtime sports editor there. They recommended me, and he hired me. My first full-time newspaper job, in 1982, paid $10,000 a year. I couldn’t have been happier. I sent resumes and clips to larger papers within a couple hundred-mile radius, eventually getting a call from the former sports editor in Newport News.

I had some vague notion of living the rootless life of many newspaper folk – moving up and on every few years for different and better assignments, more pay. But it didn’t work out that way. People knew me and respected my work, or at least faked it well. When subjects and sources return phone calls and make time to talk to you, that’s pretty much all you can ask for as a journalist. As my parents aged, I was fortunate enough to be able to see them regularly, which wouldn’t have been the case were I halfway across the country. I met my wife, built relationships both personal and professional. The money was never great, but I never felt like I wanted for anything. Truth be told, between wage freezes, minuscule pay raises and inflation, I probably took pay cuts for the last 10 years of my full-time working life. I wouldn’t have traded a minute of it.

Since I’ve jumped off the daily journalism hamster wheel, life is a little different. There are times I miss being an Enemy of the People, but so be it. I’m grateful for the life I lived so far and for what’s to come, whatever it may be.

The Twelve Days of Gheorghemas, Day Two

On the second day of Gheorghemas, Big Gheorghe gave to me:

Two Things You're Needing
And a Fat Guy in a Sweet T

We live in a frantic, whirling, world at a particularly vexing time. Our oceans are rising, our politics are infuriating, our kids are growing up too fast, OUR PETS' HEADS ARE FALLING OFF! It's been a theme of this blog this year that things are generally shitty, relatively speaking, and that we're still really blessed dudes and dudettes.

Gheorghemas reminds us that Gheorghe: The Blog itself is a key to maintaining connection, that being part of a community, no matter how silly or inconsequential to the broader world is good for one's soul.

Now, courtesy of researchers at Harvard University, the William & Mary of the North, we know that there are two other things vital to happiness and health. One might seem self-evident, while the other is a bit more nuanced.

The Grant and Glueck study has tracked two separate populations of men for more than 75 years. The Grant study has followed 456 poor men growing in the Boston area from 1939 to 2014, while the companion Glueck study focused on 268 male Harvard graduates from 1939 to 1944.

The major finding, according to Robert Waldinger, who directs the Harvard Study of Adult Development, is that relationships matter. “It’s not just the number of friends you have, and it’s not whether or not you’re in a committed relationship. It’s the quality of your close relationships that matters.”

George Vaillant, director of the study from 1972 to 2004 explains the definition of quality, and provides us with the two gifts Big Gheorghe offers us, saying, "“One [key] is love. The other is finding a way of coping with life that does not push love away.”

That first element, as noted above, seems obvious. Love is all you need, as the Beatles told us. But it stops me cold to think too hard about the second. Like most of you, I'm no stranger to stress - especially at the moment. My general stress response is to withdraw, brood, and become prickly. Pushing love away, you might say. Shouldn't have taken Harvard to tell me that's a bad idea.

So my Gheorghemas resolution (new thing!) is to take a deeper breath, and focus on drawing love and friendship close instead of pushing it away. We'll give Dr. Waldinger the last word on this subject:

"The good life is built with good relationships."

Love you guys. Happy Gheorghemas. And I look very much forward to seeing several of you later today.

Interim Gheorghemas Filler

As much as I enjoy looking at Teedge on a Rascal scooter, we need some new filler purely on an interim basis. Keep an eye out for a W&M alumnus in the video below (blink and you'll miss him).



Elmo got his and he did Phife justice. Merry Gheorghemas!

The Twelve Days of Gheorghemas: Day 1

It's a yearly tradition for me to both delay the start of Gheorghemas due to procrastination AND make it all about me, so here we are folks. Dig in for the most wonderful time of the year.

On the first day of Gheorghemas
Big Gheorghe gave to me
A fat guy in a sweet T

Happy Gheorghemas to you and yours...let's get this party started.

Sic Semper Tyrannis

We've been friends for a long time, Gheorghies. I've known some of you for 30 years. (30. Damn. Years. Jesus.) We've been through a lot. We've laughed, cried, puked, embarrassed ourselves and each other, fought, hugged, and laughed some more. I trust all of you implicitly.

This bucolic little town has a dark secret

Which is why I feel it's safe to tell you this story. I'm letting you into my world. My messy, disorganized, haphazard, lazy, immature world. Don't judge me, for I bear my flaws as a lesson to those of you less imperfect. I do this as a vehicle to teach you of the oppressive nature of government, the logical extension of Thomas Hobbes' philosophical rants, lest the Man come for you.

As a preface, allow me to quote to you from the Code of the Town of Leesburg, Virginia, section 34-72:

"It shall be unlawful for a customer to forego repair of water leaks in the supply line or within the premises when identified by town personnel, including but not limited to fire sprinkler systems. The penalty for foregoing repairs shall be denial of discontinuation of water service."

I was not aware of this section of the Town Code, as it will become painfully obvious.

We have 3 1/2 bathrooms in our home. For longer than I care to admit, two of them had toilets that ran constantly. I didn't repair said toilets because I'm a) lazy, b) forgetful, c) really lazy. The Town of Leesburg, on two occasions, contacted me to let me know that my water usage patterns indicated that I might have a leak of some sort, and that I should contact a plumber. I ignored the Town of Leesburg, not because I'm some sort of Ammon Bundy, Fuck the Government type, but because I'm really fucking lazy.

I paid my water bill on time, every time, even as it was expensive in comparison to my neighbors. (Not so expensive as to overcome my unique personal inertia, though. It didn't hurt that much just to pay the bill.) I discharged my obligation to society, paying for that which I received in terms of utilities.

Possibly the Water Gestapo. Water Nazis at least.

Two nights ago, my wife texted to let me know that the Water Gestapo from the Town of Leesburg had shut off our water, citing the aforementioned Town Code section 34-72. Luckily, she was able to reach them before the end of the business day and tell them that we would repair the leaks. The reinstated water service within the hour. No harm done. Except for the fact that my children won't look me in the eye out of shame.

We had a plumber in today who repaired both toilets and fixed a malfunctioning handle in a third toilet, all for $140. Had I known that's all it would've cost, I'd have had those repairs done a long time ago. As it turns out, I'm not only lazy, I'm cheap. At least when it comes to the mundanity of modern homeownership. I fucking hate spending money on home repairs, my friends. And while you'll say I should be able to make those kinds of repairs myself, and you'll be right, the fact remains that I can't. The obvious irony, I know, is that I spent way more on wasted water than I did on repairs. Don't @ me.

So I stand before you today as a lazy, situationally cheap, and extremely unhandy person, and I ask your understanding.

And for the life of me, where the fuck is a Republican small-government type the one time I really want one. Let me pay my fucking bills and run my faucets wide open if I want, you over-officious jerks.

I'm not proud, friends.

Gheorghe Celebrates George

George Herbert Walker Bush may have been the last of a breed. The 41st President died at the age of 94 yesterday after serving his country as a military officer, Congressman, diplomat, CIA Director, Vice President, and Commander in Chief. There won't be another like him.

In his post-presidential years, the elder Bush showed himself a man of humor and grace. The two GTB posts about him that follow serve as our tribute.

Gheorghe Salutes Gheorghe (7/25/2013)

Though his mild manners and humble bearing might argue against it, one could convincingly argue that George H. W. Bush is a genuine American hero.

Athlete, scholar, fighter pilot, politician, diplomat, and scion, our 41st President has given more to his country than nearly any man or woman, living or dead.

As we've celebrated recently, he's also got a predilection for the the slightly silly. And now, news comes that gives us reason to begin the campaign to honor Bush the Elder with the Legion of Gheorghe, the second-highest honor in all of Gheorghedom. (The first, obviously, being an invitation to become a posting member of the G:TB community.)

As reported in several places, Bush shaved his head this week in support of the two year-old son of one of the members of his protective detail. The youngster, named Patrick, is undergoing chemotherapy to treat leukemia. In fact, Bush's entire detail did the same.

(Note for the record: though I continue to support GHWB's colorful sock movement, I'm not planning to follow his lead here. Marls, however, has already done so. Good man, that Marls. And George Bush.)

Rational Exuberance (6/12/2013)

Yesterday marked President George H. W. Bush's 89th birthday, and I almost failed him.

Turns out ol' 41 has a predilection for fanciful hosiery, and encouraged like-minded Americans to help him celebrate his birthday by donning exuberant socks of their own. I didn't get the memo until it was almost too late, and so I spent most of the day wearing this only modestly exuberant (soberly silly, perhaps) pair.

But when a former Commander in Chief asks me to do something, like most patriotic Americans, I listen. (Obviously, when Clinton calls and wants to go clubbing, I listen and then hang up.) And so, in the President's honor, I came home and changed. A few times.

God Bless America, and Happy belated Birthday, Mr. President.

George and Me. And Arnie. (9/26/2016)

In 1996 I began working for the company that I still work for today. Without getting into great detail we work in the golf industry and in short, we act as “the help” for clubs and resorts around our country and abroad.

Founded in Northern Virginia by a fellow JMU’ster, early on 100% of the business was generated within a 30 mile radius of DC – Bethesda, Rockville, and NoVa. In early ’96, he got a tap on the shoulder from some hob knob clubs in Houston who had read about the services in a regional golf magazine. It was this opportunity outside of DC that precipitated my engagement.

Fast forward to the fall. I had been in Houston almost a month working at one of the previously visited clubs that requires a Thurston Howell imitation when you say its name. It’s an old-school joint with gobs of oil money and people like James Baker hanging out on the practice range. (A little side note – my accommodations were provided by one Mrs. Buckles, who was engaged to be Mrs. Buckles at the time. She was there getting her Masters at UT Houston. She worked as a waitress at a little joint down in the Rice U area called the Gingerman - I spent 3-4 nights per week there and untold dollars. Mrs. B. also introduced me to a lassie or two but that’s another story).

What was near my last week working in Houston the Head Pro, we’ll call him Dave, pages me, yes pages me on a Saturday evening when I’m sitting in Ms. Buckle’s apartment watching football. I call him back and he says that he has a VIP group coming in tomorrow and that he needs some good guys to caddie for them. I said, “No problem – what time and how many?” He tells me. I say, “Can I ask who it is?” and he says, “Sure, it’s President Bush, Arnold Palmer, Steve Pate who is the Chairman of Pennzoil, and myself.” He did add that there was a slight chance there could be a last minute cancellation.

I tried to sound cool, like I handled that sort of thing every day. I conveyed that he’d have the four best guys and I rattled off the names knowing he’d recognize who I was talking about and hopefully give his blessing.

He said, “Well, Dan, actually JT (Asst Pro) is going to caddie in the group. Two of those other guys you mentioned are fine but I’d like for you to be in the group as well.” Customer Service 101 requires you to say "OK” here, which I did. Having spent a month or so there by this time, it had been conveyed to me that Dave and H.W. were not just acquaintances but very good friends. Regardless, I like Dave and technically he’s my boss at this juncture so I don’t want to let him down.

The next morning I get to the property at the normal weekend time, 6:30/7:00. The VIP’s aren’t scheduled to play until mid-late morning. By 9:30 or 10:00 there was no sign of them and doubt began to creep in among the staff as to whether they were going to show up. I had not eaten and desperately needed some coffee so I told one of the other Assistant Pro’s that I was going to head down the road to a bagel joint and to page me if he hears anything.

I head to Bagel Town, or whatever the hell it was called. I’m chomping on a nice warm and toasty onion bagel with a little bit of cream cheese and a big cup of joe. Hmmm.  The club’s number comes up on my Motorola Advisor. It’s on bitches! I call the golf shop.  One of the 12 Assistants answer and says, “they’re on their way.”

I scoot back to the club and head to the golf shop. No one there yet. It’s time to get a little nervous. JT tells me that he and I are to take care of Mr. Palmer and the President, as per Dave. I say to JT – who do you want to caddie for? He was having trouble deciding. You know, because when your options are The King and a President it’s not a no-brainer, regardless of your political leanings.

He chose the King. I had mixed feelings but felt WAY better once we were told Mr. Palmer was going to be in a cart. So JT was simply going to be driving him all day. BOOOORRRRIIIIING!

JT is already decked out in all white – white pants, white golf shirt, white shoes - rather than don the full white coveralls that were way beneath him. I should add that JT is actually a pretty good guy who is now a HP at another established old club in Louisiana. I see him every year at a golf boondoggle in Orlando.

He and I and the other 2 caddies are standing in front of the golf shop when a caravan of SUV’s pulls up to the bag drop. Two guys, one from each get out of the first two vehicles and come straight to us. There were surprisingly few questions asked and I don’t even remember being patted down, but I was nervous. He could have tugged on the twig’n berries and I may not have felt it.

The next set of vehicles pulls in a few minutes later. More SUV’s and a limo. Remember – this is ’96 so Saddam is still in power and we are 4-5 years post-Gulf War and H.W. Presidency. (also, another side note, Clinton is in office and we are 30 days away from re-election)

The group goes to the range where we are to meet them and get introduced. We do so. Pleasantries are shared and they start beating balls. The President & Mr. P. are set up next to each on the range. With me. Pennzoil guy and Dave are further down the way. I am simply standing there watching them hit balls and listening to them shoot the shit while I try and look busy cleaning clubs. The Pres engages me in a conversation, asking what my story is. I tell him, tell him why I’m there and that my home is in Annandale at the time. He inquires a little bit about my work and says, “did ya hear that Arnold?” Arnold says “No” so George reiterates my purpose in life at the time. It was my first out of body experience.

And we begin the round. The pairings are Dave & the President against Mr. P and Mr. Pennzoil. The day prior everyone was asked not to mention who was playing golf today and at a club like this where this is a pretty common occurrence, everyone abided and because so there was no one near the first tee to watch. Well, maybe a few people, a half dozen or so but not more than that.

Everyone on the planet knows that H.W. is a notoriously fast golfer and that is so very true. I was 26 at the time and though it was well before entering into my tri/fitness phase, I wasn’t a slouch. I REALLY had to hump it to keep even or ahead of him.

I’m not going to give you a hole-by-hole description but very early on, he enlisted my services. On the 2nd hole just off the green, he was indecisive about whether to putt or chip as his ball lay just off the fringe of the green and just in the grass, probably about an inch or two at most. He was the first person I had ever seen use a long-putter. It was big and heavy, like my johnson and was a pain in the ass to have in the bag. He asked me what I thought he should do so I told him, and my advice had nothing to do with the type of putter in his bag but simply on the position of his golf ball relative to the fringe, slope of green, etc.

“Take your pitching or sand wedge and hit the ball right to this area (as I pointed with the end of the flagstick) and the ball will bleed right down within a few feet of the hole.”

He grabbed his pitching wedge. I thought, holy shit. If this works out I’m going to be his bitch (in a good way) all day long. It really was an easy shot. I felt if he putted it he could easily get the putter stuck in the grass or not hit it hard enough through the fringe. It was a no-brainer.

I stand there silent as he takes a few practice strokes. Everyone is silent, not so much because it’s the game of golf but because it is George Bush. He addresses the ball, takes a few small waggles, looks at his spot and takes the club back. All looked good until he started the club’s descent. Oh boy. That looks a little slow there pards. Non-commit much? The clubhead gets to the ball and time just sorta stopped. And then it started again but slowly. The contact with the ball was not solid, not clean at all. Too much grass between the two. Add in the horrific execution and whaddaya get? That’s right people. He TC Chen’s it! For those too lazy to check out the link, he double hit the ball which results in a penalty. How do you double hit the ball might be a question of yours, especially if not a golfer. Well, a few things must happen to do so. And they all happened. The key ingredient though is a really shitty swing.  George was irked. He looked at me. He gave me that look, ya know….he’s got that look. FUUUUUCK. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. Fuck. Fuck me. Fuck me runnin. If I had been in a situation where he was one of my pals and my playing partner, the feedback would have been anything but supportive – like a sarcastic “Nice, nice effort,” or a “don’t worry, you just lost the hole for us,” or simply “that was terrible.”

He got over it after a couple of holes. I didn’t though. Anyway, a couple of holes later A.P. is chipping onto the green from about 10 yards off and in front. The others are already on, including his competitors who have the advantage. Arnie takes it back, clips it off the Texas hardpan and the ball takes one big kick before it sizzle spins, checks, bounces, and drops into the cup. “Sizzle spins” is a phrase I just now coined by the way. By this time we’ve got a few dozen people following the group, so the birdie is accompanied with a small roar.  Because of where I was standing in relation to his position, about 15 yards off his belt buckle, with nary a reaction he watches the ball drop, looks right at me, smiles, and winks. Smiles. And winks. Arnold Palmer. At me. I spent about 4 ½ hours attached to a former President’s hip yet this is what made that day. That month. That year.

I’ve been fortunate to have been in his presence a handful of times since, as recent as this past Summer when I was invited to his club in Orlando, Bay Hill, by a good friend who works with a good friend of Arnie’s. Ya hear that a lot, “oh, I know a guy who is a friend of Arnold Palmer’s…” Well that’s because he does have a lot of friends. This guy is inner circle. When Arnie flew to Augusta for the last time this past April, this guy was on Palmer’s plane with him. My buddy has been trying to get me down there for the better part of the year to hang out and meet Arnie.
So was able to make it happen. We play and then hang out down in the men’s locker room & grill. It’s a who’s who of older guys playing cards. Hawk Harrelson. Dick Ferris (Former United Airlines CEO and Pebble Beach owner along with Arnie and a few others you’ve heard of). Dow Finsterwald. A guy from the family who used to own the Minnesota Twins. A descendant of the guy who founded Oakmont. Former PGA Tour player Robert Damron. My buddy has gotten to know all of these guys because he spends no less than 30 days a year there at the club and these guys I mention – they’re there almost every day. Golf. Cards. Drink. Eat. Repeat. And A.P. is right there with them minus the golf.

My buddy and Bob (Arnie’s good pal) are at a table next to these guys playing cards. Dow comes over and sits down. An hour later he leaves our table. An hour of Arnie stories from Dow Finsterwald all the while sitting 8 feet from the subject, sippin on chilled Tito’s. Dow is an 11-time winner on Tour, PGA Champion, 4-time Ryder Cupper, and if it weren’t for Arnie would have another 3-4 majors under his belt. Dow and he were bro’s, neighbors, runnin buddies. I’m feeling for Mr. Finsterwald today among others.

From that round in Houston I have a couple of mementos. Two golf balls with the presidential seal. One scorecard that I kept and had both Bush and Arnie sign. And a picture I took with my piece of shit disposable of those two guys posing for a picture. It would not have been kosher to ask someone to take a picture of us, so I did the next best thing. It’s a crappy picture but it’s one of those two guys standing side by side, posing for a picture that I took. I have the golf balls but after a few moves am unable to locate the other stuff. Here are the ballthz.

Though I didn’t get to sit and chat with the King as was expected (not be my but my buddy), I did get to shake his hand again and look him in the eye one last time. And I knew it was the last time.

Let Me See That Pong

Gheorghies of a certain age will recall sitting in front of a television screen, gripping a rubberized joystick mounted on a square base with a round orange button, and tracing the movements of a decidedly analog dot across the black abyss displayed in front of them.

We face a different sort of black abyss now, but that shouldn't stop us from celebrating today. Forty-six years is a long time in the context of technology, even as its a blink of an eye in other ways. But today in 1972, Atari launched the first ever commercial videogame, Pong.

Here's a Wired story about the game's creation. It all seemed so amazing back then.

And if you feel like playing, and are willing to take a few security risks with your company's computer, go get some.

Pre-Gheorghemas Filler

As we pass from the gluttonous respite of Thanksgiving and sit on the cusp on Gheorghemas, it's natural to take a break, to slow down, to get even lazier than we already are. We've got to pace ourselves if we're gonna make it to Day 12. For once.

So just take a day off, Gheorghies. Rest up. And enjoy this compilation of the 25 most underrated SpongeBob SquarePants jokes in memory of its creator, Stephen Hillenburg, who passed this week from ALS complications.

G:TB After Dark

Every now and again, the stars align and a couple of Gheorghies, or a gaggle, find themselves convening a virtual mini-summit in the comments. These are among the many little things that have kept our silly little internet salon vital for 15 years. These, inertia, and a collective sense of whimsy and unwillingness to dedicate ourselves to anything more important. (Can you imagine the books we could've written by this point if we'd made the same effort? Setting aside the fact that those books would be terrible.)

And so, in celebration of G:TB After Dark, please enjoy Maroon Five performing at Peach Pit After Dark.



If you'd like to go down this rabbit hole, here are seven more bands that played at Peach Pit After Dark, featuring The Flaming Lips and Color Me Badd. Not at the same time.

And if all this makes you hungry and thirsty for a cheesy homage, there's a Peach Pit After Dark-themed restaurant in Chicago. No word on whether Jennie Garth is there.

This Week in Wrenball: Muppet Babies Take Manhattan

I'm generally aligned with the pessimists in my sporting fandom. Years of fruitless Red Sox and Tribe hoops rooting will do that to a fellow. With a 1-4 start to W&M's basketball season, one might expect me to fall into the 'same old sorry ass Tribe' camp. Not me. Not this year.

Oh, I have no illusions about Tony Shaver's squad. The out of conference schedule is going to bring some pain. Starting Saturday, W&M's remaining non-con run goes St. Joseph's, at Marshall, George Mason, at ODU, at Hampton, William Peace (I don't know what that is any more than you do, but I'm guessing it's a D-III cupcake), and at UVA. If the Tribe enters CAA play better than 3-9, that'll be a surprise.

But even if they don't, the foundation being built as the squad suffers gives me reason for optimism.

These guys are coming...

The current 1-4 mark has been built on equal parts injuries to key players and the inexperience of their replacements, with a soupçon of Nathan Knight foul trouble that allowed Illinois-Chicago to top the Tribe. Those injuries (to juniors Justin Pierce and Matt Milon, W&M's top rebounder and second- leading scorer, and best outside shooter, as well as senior Paul Rowley, a consistent deep stroke who brings useful post depth - the three have missed a combined eight games) and the concomitant need for young ballers to play significant minutes are a blessing in disguise.

Through five games, freshmen have played 46.3% of W&M's minutes, scored 31.1% of the team's points, grabbed 33.9% of the rebounds, and tallied 50% of the squad's assists and blocks. First-year guard L.J. Owens is W&M's fourth-leading scorer, averaging 10.6 points on 42.1% three-point shooting. Fellow frosh Thornton Scott is second in assists, while Chase Audige averages 6.8 ppg, 2 boards, and 1.2 assists in 24.4 minutes per game. All told, four freshman average more than 13 minutes, with 6'9" big Mekhel Harvey getting 8.8.

...but we need these three

When you play that many kids, you get predictable results, but W&M led Notre Dame in South Bend with fewer than nine minutes to play, took Big South defending champ Radford to the wire, and narrowly lost in overtime to Illinois-Chicago (in a game Knight played only 14 minutes due to foul trouble and Pierce sprained his ankle in the extra period).

Knight's junior season, UIC loss excepted, has started as expected. The 6'10 junior from Syracuse is averaging 19 points and 7 boards, shooting 59% from the floor and 84% from the line. He'll be the focus of every defense the Tribe plays. Which will be a good thing for Pierce, once he returns from injury. The junior wing is leading W&M in scoring and rebounding, averaging a double-double in the three games he's played (22.3 points and 11.3 rebounds). As good as Knight is, Pierce might wind up the best player on the team.

Eventually, after all those years of rooting in vain, the Red Sox broke through. This may not be the Tribe team that does the same, but don't let the early season fool you. These kids are (gonna be) alright.

As God Is My Witness, A Gheorghie Holiday Post

Reupping a Gheorghie tradition, because I love you peeps:

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It's that time of year again, yes, the day when Les Nessman rises from the ashes like Lazarus to be our Thanksgiving Day filler. Well, Les, Big Guy, Dr. Johnny Fever, and the whole gang at WKRP, in what is my favorite Thanksgiving episode of television ever.

This is either the fifth or sixth time we have used this iconic scene on Turkey Day, making it the most frequently recurring bit outside of Gheorghemas.

Which reminds me...time for the GTBers to get to work on those 12 glorious days.


Enjoy your day of gluttony and gridiron games, and perhaps revel us with some tales of holiday hi-jinx in the comments section.

The Spahn Ball

Born thirty miles due east of Syracuse, pronounced SARR-AH-QUUSE, in what is now pretty much a shithole that is Oneida, NY, I grew up as most of us did - as enthusiastic sports fans – Yankees, Syracuse, Notre Dame, and the Dallas Cowboys. I was equally satisfied watching an entire Yankee game with my grandma as I was watching Dan Devine’s Irish take on the Trojans of USC. I never missed a Syracuse basketball game on the television and was able to see many in person, both in the final days of Manley Field House and in the inaugural season of the Carrier Dome. As an aside, did you know there is no air conditioning in the Carrier Dome?  

Outside of the Syracuse jaunts to see the Orange(men) play football or hoops, the first epic trip was to Boston with my dad, my uncle Bob, my cousin Jean, my sister Kris, and my best pal Pat Flanagan – we were heading there for a 2-game series between the Sox and the Yankees. Damn skippy! Pat was actually a Boston fan. My dad and sister didn’t give a shit. Jean, Uncle Bob and I were ha-yuge Yankee fans. The year – 1978, summer of course. Highlights included being in the vicinity of a Reggie Jackson home run ball and sitting next to the Yankee bullpen where we sat watching the likes of Goose Gossage and Catfish Hunter. THE highlight though, took place in the lobby of the hotel where the New York squad was staying. Heading over to the place my dad and Bob felt certain the Yankees would be staying, I recall feeling a little less than optimistic that we'd see much less meet any of my heroes.  

We walk in. It’s the nicest hotel I had been in to date. Howard Johnson’s may have been the front runner leading into this moment. The lobby was cavernous and with no shortage of glass and escalators. We go up one. And approaching us and going down, per my dad, is Bucky Dent. Dad: “Danny…here comes Bucky Dent.” No way! Bucky looks cool as shit. Certainly on his way to go chase some skirt. Blue jeans, cowboy boots, dress shirt, cowboy hat. 

We get to the top, swing around, and reverse direction keeping an eye on him all the way. Fortunately for us, he made it easy. He was heading to the front desk, probably to leave a key for his Boston hook-up. He finishes his interaction and turns around toward us. There we stood, looking at him like a thirsty dog would his owner. He practically has to get through us to get by. As he approached, I think it was my Uncle Bob who asked on our behalf for an autograph. He somewhat pleasantly obliged. He certainly was not eager to stand by and shoot the shit though. He had fish to troll. And that was it…my first brush with fame, and Yankee fame to boot from number 20 himself, the Dentster. I was hooked. Get me some more of that action please! We continue to meander around the hotel. Up where we had originally stepped off the escalator before turning around to pursue Bucky, a nice hotel restaurant sat. It was quiet, not a lot of action, as in none. As we approach, an older man donning a suit stood guard at the entrance. As we get closer to him, we see sitting at a table through the glass wall, all by himself eating fried eggs and toast, is #44 himself. HOLY SHIT!!!! The man in the suit was the gatekeeper and he shut us down quickly. "Mr. Jackson does not want to be disturbed while he's eating." We gazed for a few more seconds at the man and went on our way. The weekend was just incredible, top few of my adolescence. I honestly don’t remember much outside of the baseball games themselves other than these two brushes with fame, but that’s all ya need. It was this particular weekend when I became a tad more entrenched in my deep like for the game.

#20 - Bucky Dent

The house I grew up in – you’ve heard about it. I’ve waxed poetic on the social hub that was our house, both for my parents and older sisters. It was an old house but it had key ingredients conducive for get-togethers, both in and out: a good sized yard, and a bar. Here’s the roof of the house (top left of image) See the yard. Lots of activity in this here yard – name the sport, but also add in igloo making and ice skating. That’s right…more than one ice storm afforded us the ability to walk outside and skate in our back yard. I don’t miss that. 

Summer, 1979. Another of my grand memories from childhood. Cooperstown was an hour and fifteen minutes from where I grew up. We get up early. Well, I get up early. My dad was always up at crack of dawn, showered and shaved. I can tell you that unless I crossed paths with my dad while on his way to his morning shower, I never, ever, saw him un-showered and un-shaved. And we would cross paths occasionally because they did not have their own bathroom in that house, and this just dawned on me. One full bathroom. Can you imagine having a wife, 5 kids, 3 of whom are teenage daughters, and sharing a bathroom with them? 

We head out. I in the customary back right position in the standard very large cruising vessel that was probably a Crown Victoria. My dad tells me he we are going to meet a guy for breakfast on the way. Okay. We stop at a diner. I think we sit at the diner bar. His guy comes in and sits next to us. The relationship is a working one…either my dad is a client of his or vice versa. I had never met him. My dad wasn’t in the habit of taking me to work-related breakfasts with his associates quite yet. That came at eleven. The man hands me a square white cardboard box, smallish, about the size that could hold a baseball. I open it. It’s a baseball. It has a light-blue Chevy logo on it. I guess this guy had some sort of Chevrolet connection? I didn’t care. It was a brand new baseball! Boy am in the midst of a swell day! We eat, finish, shake hands, and head out. To Cooperstown!

the standard car of my early days

It’s a day. A beautiful one. Warm for sure, sunny. We do the Hall. Plaques, busts, trophies, balls, bats, gloves, photos, videos, all sorts of people. My dad liked baseball but in retrospect, this was all about me. He was not the type to meander through such a place with intent and focus. With little patience and a disdain for crowds, he must have wanted to speed this along.

This was forty years ago. Many of my recollections don’t come with absolute clarity. That said, I can’t remember when it was shared with me that we’d be attending a baseball game while in Cooperstown. It could have been in the days before the trip. It could have been in the car while in route. But a real life, professional baseball game was going to be played and patronized by me and big daddy.

The Hall of Fame Game in 1980 was played between the Pittsburgh Pirates and Chicago White Sox. We all know who won the 1979 World Series don’t we? Willie Stargell. Dave Parker. The ugly hats that all of us probably owned. I did. Our seats were in left field…it may have been general admission. Either way, we were front row, right behind the fence. Within minutes a ball is hit right toward us. Oh shit…I’m going to get another ball today. Sailing Sailing Sailing. Chet Lemon running running running. Right toward us. Outreached arm. Full speed. Ball comin in hot. Going to be close. May be a dinger. May not be. Lemon fast! Chet is running RIGHT AT US, ball too. Arm outstretched. Ball grazes glove. Chet meets wall. Wall meets Chet. Ball hits wall and bounces back toward infield. Chet is DOWN. Chet is bleeding. Chet is attended by trainers with white towels. Towels become red, and quickly. Chet gets carted off with more red towels and the need for lots of stitches and probably some plastic surgery. Had I witnessed that a few years later, “Gnarly” would have been appropriate. But that word didn’t exist at that point, in my vocab anyway. I probably just said, “Wicked”. A recap of the game that summer day. No mention of the sliced Lemon though. 

During the game, they honor Warren Spahn. My dad tells me who he is, and the announcer backs it up with a purging of stats and honors accumulated by the man. Most victories by a left-hander (still holds up) with 363 wins. Thirteen 20-win seasons. He had a 23-win season at the age of 42. Today, the Warren Spahn award goes to the league's best southpaw each year. (Wiki can't hit me for plagiarism can it?) From left field he looks to be a mile away on the pitcher’s mound. He looks old though, that I know. Old and never having heard of him, I’m not moved. Can we get back to the game please?

Game ends. We head over to the hotel where, you guessed it, the players stay. Much easier to figure in Cooperstown than in Beantown. We sit in the lobby bar and my dad has another guy he’s meeting, but this one I know from back home. He too was at the game. They order a couple of beers, PBR’s I’m guessing. The area is busy with the game having been let out an hour or so ago, but somehow we get a table. My dad didn’t wait around for stuff like tables. Before the first half beer was downed, my dad’s pal whispers, “Danny, that’s Warren Spahn that just sat down.”  I look over and can only assume what he’s telling me is true. He does look like the guy that stood on the pitcher’s mound a couple of hours ago. He looks old too. He’s sitting with who must be his wife and some other gent. She too looks aged. This guy is no Bucky Dent.

My dad’s bud Frank says, “take that baseball over to him and ask him to sign it”. I was pretty damned shy and very reticent with this seemingly easy task. Bucky was different. He was walking towards us and another adult did the work for us. This was all on me. I hesitated, probably even shook my head no. Frank goaded me though. I get up and tepidly make my way. Spahn's back is facing me with his body open to the right, facing his wife who is looking straight at me as I approach. What the fuck is her problem? Why is she looking at me like this? She looks like one of my nuns at school. Does she know me? I block it out and make it to Spahn’s periphery. He opens up more and sees that I have a baseball in my hand. In the meekest of fashion, I say, “Mr. Spahn, could you sign my baseball?” It came out barely a whisper. What a pussy I am. It didn’t matter. He had done this before. Before getting through the request, he took the ball out of my hand, grabbed a pen from his suit coat pocket and did the deed. Mr. Warren asked if I made it to the game that day, and if I had fun. Yes sir I did! Did you see Chet bust his head open?! Wow, that was too easy. This autograph thing is wicked awesome. Who else is in this joint?

And so here we are…the denouement. Fast forward a year or more. Fall has approached. A weekday in the backyard with a few other young lads. The game of the day is baseball which is DUMB. Wiffle or stick ball w/a wiffle or tennis ball…sure. Frisbee…yeah why not. Kickball…absolutely. Pickle or “Hot Box” as we sometimes called it – no downside. But baseball, statistically, was going to end badly.

Click HERE. Wait for it. My apologies – I know there was an easier way to do this, but our interns were out this week.

In the top left of the image, the home with the nice sized yard and the two white cars in front of – that is where I spent the first twelve years of my life. And roughly 20 for my oldest sisters and parents. Now, look at the bottom left hand corner where you get a glimpse of a road, and to the right of the road, there is a small opening in the trees where you see a patch of darkness. That darkness is a creek.

A view from the front….the house on the left is my house. The garage you see behind it was roughly half the size of the one that sits there in this image. The creek is behind and well below house level, a thirty foot descent down a pretty steep, but navigable slope. If anything round rolls over the edge…

The pitches would come from right to left, and balls hit from left to right. The batter stood just on the road side of the garage but even with the garage wall. You following? A ball pulled hard left isn’t good. And considering everyone was right handed, what were the chances?

Must I continue?

We rarely played actual baseball in this yard. I don’t need to explain why. We must have had an itch on this downtrodden day. And it was. Heavy cloud cover, very cool, depressing really. Winter is coming. Mid-October had to be. We were probably knee deep in a World Series which is the only reason I can think of that had us playing baseball. It’s almost dinner time and we are two balls down. We have no balls left. The supply is tapped. Gonzo. Fuck, man.

“Don’t you have a ball in your room Dan?” asks someone.

“Oh yeah! I do…good thinkin!” says I.

I jet inside the backdoor and make my way to the stairs, up two at a clip and into the room where I grab the ball that sits atop my dresser and without motion to spare zip back down and I do this in roughly fifteen seconds.

“Do NOT hit this in the creek! This is the Warren Spahn ball.”

Yours truly was on the dirt that day. That and third base – my domains. Craig Nettles. My guy. At the plate – had to be Dave Hawthorne or Billy Shoeneck (sheh-nick). I guess it could have been Mark Edick though too. Yes, real name.

Ball. Ball. Swing and miss. Foul tip. Foul ball pulled left not terribly hard rolling rolling ball being run down by shitbird at third ball approaches edge ball now over edge ball could possibly get caught up on something on the way down since it’s not hit too terribly hard but who the hell am I kidding that ball is creek-bound we all make it to the edge and catch the ball descending and bouncing picking up speed bounce bounce closer and closer and closer and faster and faster and splash and current is real strong today and ball is out of sight in 5 seconds. This would would be the view from where the ball would be coming from, just a hundred or so yards from behind our house. 

Game Over. Well, that stinks! At first I wondered what Dad will do if he finds out. Will he be pissed? Do I tell him or just leave it be? I left it be, for years...the story would be told and re-told, usually among my crew and dad over beers, or in strange blogs. Turns out it would not have phased him. It was my ball. My stupidity.

Enter 40 years later. A friend asks for your address. A few days later.....the story gets a new, and better ending. I like it so much I replaced my head with it. 

Thanks again Whit. A Hall-of-Fame worthy random act of kindness. 

The End.