Mini Golfing with the nephew

My nephew Aidan is a cute kid. He's about to turn 7. Bright too, even though he likes to announce he doesn't know how to read yet (this isn't entirely true), his brain is always churning. I was over at his house a few weeks ago for his younger sister's birthday (I take each niece and nephew out for their birthday) and out of the nowhere he blurts out, "Uncle Eric, will you take me mini-golfing?" We all got a kick out of the spontaneity of the question. I found out later he played it on the computer and I guess wanted to know what it was like in real life.

So today we went, not for his birthday, but because I hadn't played in a long, long time and I thought it would be good for me. I took him to a Putt-Putt course we all went to as kids near where we grew up. I let him sit in the front seat. He declared his appreciation by informing me that the front was much cleaner than the back. "Yeah," I said, "it is kind of cluttered back there."

It was a cool, sunny day, but as we drove there, the clouds moved in. And as we started playing, it began to drizzle. It took me a few minutes to get him to hold the club right and to swing it correctly. Even I had forgotten exactly how to teach it. He wanted to swing it like a baseball bat, bending his elbows, pulling it back, and twisting his wrists as he swung. I got him to do a gentler sway and keep the club pretty straight and after a few practices, he got it in the hole in two hits. It was the easy first hole, just a straight shot. I got a hole in one on it--still, for him, two was very impressive. The next task was to get him to wait for the ball to stop rolling before he hit it again. That took a little while.

"Wait for the ball to stop, Aidan. Focus," I would tell him. "Patience. Set your feet. Aim your club." Through the front nine, he would occasionally get a 2 or a 3 here and there. If I could keep him from being careless, he would do okay. Before each hole, we would look at the hole and talk about how to hit it in. Usually, we would have to bank it or hit it up a hill or through a loop. By the tenth hole he was getting it. He understood the bank shot and the hills and how to hit around the obstacles. And when I could tell he was taking it seriously, I would give him mulligans. To his credit, he never asked for one. And when I would tell him to do it over, he would protest and want to hit it from "the field" as he called it. After a while, I just let him.

It was gently raining by the time we finished the first nine holes. He had a hoodie pulled over his head. I did not.

We were the only ones on the course. The guy working the desk waved at us and yelled, "you guys don't have to play in the rain. I can give you a ticket and you can come back and play another time." Aidan did not like this idea. He was having fun, and as he put it, "it really [wasn't] raining that hard."

When we got to the sixteenth hole, he looked at me and said, "I just have to hit it straight, right Uncle Eric?"

He was right, it was a straight shot, but it was a narrow path to the hole. It had mulch on both sides surrounded by the wood borders every Putt-Putt course has; there was little margin for error. He raised the putter behind him like he was going to drive the ball down a fairway.

"Aidan!" I said, "you don't have to cream it. Focus. Aim. Don't be careless."

"It's just a straight shot, Uncle Eric" he said non-chalantly lowering the putter back down to the ball.

"If you hit it too hard, it will go over the hole instead of dropping in," I said.

"I just need to hit it straight," he said, quite good naturedly, not at all bothered by my incessant coaching. Mind you, he was holding the putter down by the ball, looking at the hole every now and then as he talked to me. He didn't wait for another reply from me; he pulled that putter back and drilled the ball. It went speeding over the felt and right over the hole. I cringed. The ball hit the wood backstop behind the hole and popped up in the air, dropped back down, bounced a couple times and rolled a couple more inches right into the hole. If that hole isn't there, that ball rolls all the way back to us.

I started laughing. I couldn't believe it. "You know what that is, don't you?" I asked.

"A hole in one!" he yelled out. He was quite proud of himself and not as surprised as me at his success.

"You have a very confident stroke," I complimented him somewhat tongue-in-cheek. I did not get a hole in one, by the way. After that, the first shot was always taken seriously. He would find the hole, inspect the obstacles, and determine where the ball should be hit. He two-ed out the last three holes--no mulligans. And was ready for another eighteen.

He was two-ing and three-ing most of the greens, at least more than I expected him to. Once in a while, he would get careless. The shots after the first one didn't matter much to him. Sometimes it looked like he was playing hockey instead of golf but for the most part, he was trying.

At one point he asked me, "Have you played here before, Uncle Eric?"

"Yeah, your dad and I used to play here when we were kids," I said.

"Wow, this is an old course," he said, quite serious and quite astounded that a mini golf course could be around that long. "I didn't know it had been here that long. It really doesn't look that old."

I started laughing. "I'm sure they try to keep it looking nice," I said. The funniest part about this is that as far as Putt-Putt courses go, this one is a real "hole in the wall", no pun intended.

We eventually came to a hole similar to the one he got the previous hole in one on. By this time he was moving ahead of me. There was no more discussing the holes ahead of time. He was just getting to it.

But again, for this hole, I reminded him, "you don't have to hit it real hard."

"I'm just going to hit it straight," he said, still good natured but with a slight accent of concentration that hadn't been there before. And he did hit it straight. And again, he pulled that putter back and drilled the ball, and it went over the hole, hit the back, popped up into the air, bounced back down and came speeding back towards the hole. My jaw dropped. The ball hit the hole then popped into the air again, dropped straight back down, rimmed almost halfway around the hole, then fell in. As he retrieved his ball, he reminded me, "Just hit it straight, Uncle Eric." I couldn't have kept the grin off my face if I'd wanted to.

"Okay," I said. I tried to hit it straight, but I did not get a hole in one.

By this time, the rain had stopped, and he did not want to wait for me to go. He would politely ask if he could go on to the next hole each time after he finished without exception, and I would always say yes remembering what that was like. As I finished a hole a few holes later, I noticed he was teeing off (is that what you call it--you might as well when he's playing) at the hole with two triangles jutting in at different points. He had creamed the ball again and it had hit the second triangle. It caromed off the triangle to the opposite wall, hit the back wall then rolled in the hole. Another hole in one.

"How did you do that?" I asked, mostly to make sure I had just seen what I thought I had just seen. He proceeded to quickly explain to me by running across the green and showing me where the ball needed to hit on the triangle and that it would go on to hit in the other two places if I did that. But he also mentioned that I had to hit the ball hard enough so that it would go in the hole.

"Yeah, Yeah," I thought.

I did not get a hole in one. I was a couple inches short and as the ball hit the back wall and came to a stop, he respectfully said, "Yeah, you didn't hit your ball as hard as I hit mine."

He was correct; I had not. It was an observation more necessary than perhaps he realized. And again, I couldn't stop smiling. "You're right," I told him. "I didn't."

At the end of the day, he had three holes in one and I had three holes in one (different holes). And he had a better score than me on several holes. And his holes in one were NOT mulligans.

My nephew and nieces are good at making astute observations and asking good questions. I cherish my time with each of them. Sure, they're not always cute. They always want something. They don't always listen. More than once, Aidan had to go running after his ball because he hit it wrong or too hard. He wouldn't always listen. He asked if we were going to get candy afterwards. He kept wanting a soda out of the machine. And his holes in one, except for maybe the last one, were pretty lucky. But those aren't the things I focus on, and I don't think it's what they really care about either. There are the conversations that I don't always realize I'm having until afterwards that stay with me. Aidan and I had one today. It didn't hit me until after I got home. I don't even remember exactly how it went, but I remember the gist of it, and I don't think it lasted even a minute.

One thing Aidan kept asking me was how many points I had. And there were holes that he took seriously and I would give him a real score, but there were ones he didn't and I would just give him a four or a five. At one point I said, "it's about having the lowest score, not the most points."

To which he replied, "It's about having fun, not who scores the most points, right Uncle Eric?"

How could I not smile. "That's right," I said.

My nephew Aidan is a good boy.

Cheers.

Family Guy, Barry Manilow, and being a dude.

"I thought you were different."

It's a line I've heard a few times over the years.

What does it mean? That they thought I was a girl? Gee, sorry I disappointed you. Although that being said, I do like to think I'm in touch with my sensitive side.

I usually take the statement as a reference or a pseudo dig to one of their exes, and quite frankly, a pretty insidious thing for one person to say to another. The fact that I'm not the person they thought I was makes me want to crawl into a hole and not come out for a while.

I don't though.

Ultimately, I've always considered the comment somewhat of a relief. Like maybe I really am the stereotypical, insensitive, beligerent, male. I mean, deep down we all want to be Billy Baddasses, right?

Male bravado has always given me something to write about. And how hard (no pun intended) some dudes go to display their toughness is something worth satirizing. Now, I'm not talking about those dudes in the UFC or whatever it's called. Those dudes really are bad asses. And there are plenty of things both genders do that confirm our strengths that have nothing to do with beating the living spit out of one another. But there are certain external behaviors that men do which are ridiculous. I'm not going to pick on women behaviors because I don't really understand them and I don't want them to hate me because then I think my life might become pointless.

I frequently can be found down on Main Strausse in Covington, KY having a beer out on the sidewalk with a friend or friends. There are times when our conversations will regularly be interrupted by extremely loud motorcycles being driven around the block. It is negative, anti-social behavior and disconcerting if you are deeply involved in conversation. Of course, it doesn't help that my friend likes to yell out that the men driving the bikes have small penises. His point is well taken though. Riding the loud bike through a crowded area blantantly screams out a number of insecurities on their part and is a misguided effort at hiding those insecurities. Certainly there are inately male behaviors that at least in certain circles, we indulge in. Call it being a dude, following guy code, or whatever cheesy platitude you want to ascribe to the behavior. Whether they be crude, infantile, or blatantly offensive behaviors, we men also have a sensitive side that should not be repressed. Those guys driving those bikes--they need a hug, but they're either afraid to go get one or to go give one. We all have peaks and valleys, accomplishments and disappointments and both usually occur when we are putting a lot of effort into something or someone, and these experiences are what can create our insecurities and develop our coping skills. In some cases, these experiences make us hard, anti-social jerk-offs who would rather be negative and bring down every social situation we're put in rather than make a positive impact on our surroundings. It's often a result of a fear of repeating or reliving those highs and lows that can push people to anti-social behavior.

I like to think that I am in touch with my sensitive side. Don't misunderstand me; I have an ego, a pretty big one. I have my moments of self centered, "please pay attention to me" moments when I am around others. I was out recently going on about running 3 miles in 20 minutes and how great I was in MS Access. It is a very embarrassing memory (not of the run or my grasp of Access, but the bragging). Sometimes I think I really need to get over my self. And then I do for a little while.

One of the things that helps me be sensitive is my garden. I have a vegetable garden. A pretty big one (see, that's a guy comment, had to get that one in there). Produces way more than I need, which means I get to share, which means I'm sensitive (sort of, I only share what I don't want and only when I feel like it).

I also have a flower garden. Flower gardens are not manly. Having a flower garden is not something I brag about. You want to know what I do brag about? Not the colors of the flowers, THE SIZE OF THEM. I grow mammoth sunflowers in my garden. You ever seen them? They're huge man; GIGANTIC. 12 feet tall. Blooms are two feet wide. They give you hundreds of seeds per flower. Do I like flowers? yes. Do I brag about growing them? No . . . well . . . sort of.

That's the joke, the satire in it all. I don't talk about the beauty of the flowers; I talk about their size. The amount of seeds they produce. The amount of space they take up. That's manly. And I think that's worth a laugh. What is not quite as funny are the guys who use guns and a variety of other noise makers to get attention. Not just the jack off who goes around killing and hurting people but the doofus that shoots the gun off his porch and hollers, "Wooo Hoooo!" What do you do if you want people to think you're tough when you're feeling wimpy? Buy a gun or some bombs or something noisy, then go somewhere and be destructive or at the very least, annoying (yeah suicide bombers, even you). In my fiction, guns almost always represent a false sense of phallus. They are pulled out or are used at those moments of heightened insecurity. A crossroads, if you will, where a man has to decide to accept who he is or hide it until it consumes him. Of course, that's in my fiction.

The short clip below is one of the funnier ones I've ever seen from Family Guy. It parodies a scenario where men hide their true feelings while sitting around drinking beer. It does this utilizing a conversation about Barry Manilow, a musician not exactly known for his machismo. I remember mom having a Barry Manilow album when I was a little kid, probably still does; the cover had a close up portrait of Manilow and when I first looked at the cover I thought, "is that a girl?"

I can't say that I have a favorite Barry Manilow song, but I think most people do. I remember asking a girl I once knew and cared about, if she ever heard the song, "Even Now," by Bob Segar. She didn't hear me say the Segar part, just the title, "Even Now". She got very excited before I finished the question, got on the computer, brought up the Manilow song, and listened to it teary-eyed. She would occasionally look to me, either for approval or to see if I was a little clempt, too. I wasn't. I was beside myself. I don't talk to her anymore, not because of that, though I bet it's related somehow (I'm pretty sure she wasn't thinking of me when she was listening to the song).

I think we all have at least one song that could turn us into a girl if we listened to it enough. It's usually because of a woman we have these songs. I have a few: "Rainbow Connection" by Kermit the Frog, "The Way You Kiss Me" by Faith Hill; there's a SEAL song that I can't remember, "Touched by a Rose" I think (in fact I may have gotten that Faith Hill title wrong), and then there was a Bee Gees song at one time but I can't remember it, so I guess it really doesn't count. I don't go out of my way to listen to these songs because 1) I don't want to turn into a girl and 2) I don't live in the past.

I don't have a favorite Barry Manilow song. I think you have to be married for like ten years minimum to like his music. Although I remember getting mom's album out once in a while and pretending I was a DJ and I would mix "Copa Cabana" in with some Beach Boys and Billy Joel. That was back when I was in grade school. And I was being a DJ which meant I was playing it for other people. Of course, there's that song, "Can't Smile Without You;" it's kind of cute. And I'd like to think I'll be with someone long enough that the refrain to the song, "Looks Like We Made It" might have some meaning. I'll probably be pooping in diapers by the time that happens though. And if I am, I'll probably be singing the song to myself (or to the nurse wiping my butt).

Enjoy the clip. Afterwards, read below.



The satire in this scene really comes out after Joe declares his love of Manilow. Look at his mouth after he says it. Clearly Joe said the one thing they all were thinking but were afraid to say as they spoke of Manilow's "okay" songs. The following scene has them at the concert and Quagmire gets serenaded by Manilow to the tune of "Mandy". Very funny if you can find it.

Sometimes I get caught up in these conversations about music and I can't tell if I'm in a pissing contest or a popularity contest. Some would argue that there is not much of a difference. Music is important, don't get me wrong, but it's not the kind of music you listen to so much as it is the importance of the music to the individual. There are a number of songs that will trigger memories and remind us of a time, often a specific moment in time or a specific person in our life, that we never want to forget for better or for worse. This becomes part of our identity, the very essence of who we are, which of course includes how we act around others. Those stories/memories are often more interesting than the music. Give me someone who listens to a bunch of stuff different than me any day over stuff I already listen to. It's a great way to get to know someone. Not so much the music itself as the stories behind why they listen to it. Even people who aren't really "into" music have those stories. And what I often find is that my musical tastes only broaden and my friendships only strengthen when I take the time to listen to those stories.

So I don't think us guys need to run around constantly talking about our favorite, mooshy, soft rock song. I just think it's okay if we have one. And if that song is playing in your head and it makes you smile, just don't tell anybody why you're smiling, dude. And for Christ's sake, get mufflers for your frickin' bikes.

Cheers.