Monday, June 29, 2009

Badminton Anyone?

Pronounced bat-mean-tone here in Paradise-with-rain, Badminton is a sport, recreation, exercise and darn good way to induce pain into assorted body parts if you are above the age of sixty and, let's face it, who isn't?

To play Badminton one must first prepare the court. In our case here at Casa Dragonview, this required a strenuous mowing of the grass/weeds we call our lower lawn with the mower blade set at its highest level. Following the Rigorous Wrestling this entails, the lawn then had to be... Rigorously Raked. Rigor, it seems, is an essential part of Badminton. It is here that the assorted Body Part Pain mentioned earlier first comes in to play. Post raking, a second mowing with the mower blade set at its lowest level was then Rigorously undertaken with the grass/weeds being decreased and the BPP (Body Part Pain) successfully achieving a substantial increase. Because our ha-ha lawn had been a field of coffee trees prior to its latest incarnation, there remained as a reminder of its former self many deep holes. These had been created by the Rigorous Removal of the coffee tree stumps sometime earlier. These holes had to be filled to prevent broken ankles during play (Ankle breakage being a hindrance that can cause the game of the injured player to be seriously impaired.) A new hole apart from the court had to be dug in order to obtain the dirt with which to fill the on court depressions. It is here that the BPP comes fully to the Ferocious Fore, but not to worry. Being the Backyard Class competitor that I am, I fought through the pain and filled the holes.

Now it was time to play. RTGFKAR, who had been Rigorously doing something else while all this was going on, took the court and glared across the net at me with his most intense game-face which looks something akin to Santa's after having squirmed down a tight chimney only to find no cookies awaiting. I glared back from my side of the court and served the shuttlecock. For those of you who are new to Badminton, I must point out that a shuttlecock is not a gigolo who works the flights between New York and D.C, but rather a small feathered object that serves as a sort of ball/bird to be struck with racquets. My service was netted and the, uh, cock, fell to the ground. The presence of our little blond cocker spaniel, Raffie, was then duly noted as he streaked in to snatch up the grounded shuttlecock. A comedic chase worthy of the Silents, then ensued with cries of "Bad dog, bad dog" hastening the mutts disappearance into the surrounding foliage, my own tragically slow self in hot, but futile pursuit. A new strategy of "Good dog, good dog, bring it to me" was then employed and was nearly successful. At the very moment that Raffie emerged from the jungle intent on returning the shuttlecock and receiving his due praise and treats, our second Cocker, Mattie, streaked from the bushes in a blur of black and snatched an exposed part of the psuedo-bird-ball; an action that instantly produced a, you guessed it...Rigorous, game of tug-o-war. Bye bye birdie.

A second shuttlecock was put into play after stern warnings to all canines near and far were advanced and its message made clear. Find your own damn birds. (A message, alas, that they may have taken to heart as both dogs have, in the last couple of days, presented us with the gifts of small dead chickens that we presume they have killed. This is very worrisome.) RTGFKAR and I played for a half hour to confirm that BPP can be greatly enhanced when stumbling, bumbling, lunging, lurching and whiffing repeatedly are the order of the day. Had critics been in attendance, the words "pitiful performance" would surely have been used.

A hard rain has since flattened our net and made the court unplayable. That, however, was yesterday. Today the sun is shining, ah, Rogorously, and my BPP is at a tolerable level. This leaves me with but one last thing to say. Let the games begin. Or is it gentlemen start your shuttlecocks?

Thursday, June 25, 2009

Flea Bitten

I was inspired by circumstance yesterday to bathe our two Cockers. The circumstance that led to my inspiration was waking up with twenty some odd flea bites scattered at random about my bod. For those of you who have not experienced flea bites, allow me to cast a bit of light on the subject. They itch. They really itch. They itch like effing crazy! Why, with three dogs and a woman sharing the same room, the fleas would select me as dinner is a question begging an answer, well, by me anyway. Surely it is more than "I'm just a tasty fellow."

I should point out that all three mutts were treated with medication advertised to prevent fleas, ticks and extra-terrestrials from invading their bodies for a minimum of thirty days. The treatments were given three weeks ago... can I get my money back. Finnegan, the Golden, still appears flea bite-less, but the two Cockers and I, as I've noted, not so much.

I first stripped down to my bite spotted nakedness and then donned my swimsuit. I snagged the nearest mutt, Mattie, hauled her into the shower and placed her on the ledge we have installed there for sitting, but is most often used as a shelf. If you are wondering why the swimsuit, consider the relative height of the ledge and its proximity to my genital hang while standing, and you will surmise that I was wise to minimize the temptation for a slippery, wet, sudsed-up, wanting to escape, sharp toothed mutt to cast about for something to latch onto. We will perish that thought. While holding her collar by one hand, I diligently applied the flea and tick removal shampoo for ten minutes as per the instructions. Neither the dog nor I enjoyed the interval and I wondered why fleas take so long to die. After a good rinse, I loosed the grateful pup into the bathroom at large where I had covered the floor with old towels. These were, of course, completely ignored. Shaking was the drying technique of Mattie's choice even as I chased her around the room snatching at towels and trying to rub her down. It wasn't long before I arrived at a convenient "that's good enough" mind set and opened the bathroom door. I then watched as the still somewhat dripping mutt leaped onto the bed and began to further dry herself on the spread and pillows in the precise manner that I had visualized her using the towels for. No matter, I thought. Those babies were all headed for the washer/dryer soon as the dogs were done.

I then repeated this entire sloppy process with Raffi in exact, minute detail. Deja vu all over again as Yogi would say.

Following the fun and frolic of the dog's bath, I turned the game over to Charly who spent a large chunk of day washing everything cloth ever touched by dog or man. I am now happy to report that neither mutt shows signs of further itching. Wish I could say the same for my own-self. Fortunately, (if their is a fortunately, that is, a happy ending to this story) my itching is from old bites, not new ones, and I do have an answer for that.

Somebody hand me the Grubers.

Wednesday, June 24, 2009

Procrastination Meets The Deeps

I'm suffering from procrastination. Okay, it's not really suffering like being down with the flu or putting up with pain, it's more of an annoying mental nag that I can't make go away; sort of like an itch I can't reach to scratch. I try to put it out of my mind, but it keeps sneaking relentlessly back. What causes procrastination anyway? Fear and/or laziness come to mind, but I don't think either is the case this time. I think...I think...(and right there is the usual source of trouble) that it may be a mild depression or "the deeps" as I like to call the particular condition that causes life to feel flat and featureless. Son #2 has returned to Maryland after a great visit and whenever any of my kid units depart there is a void that loiters about the premises like a fog that I am unable to dissipate with just my usual routine. Hence, I suppose, my putting off the usual routine. I could definitely do with some pot, red licorice and blues music (always my formula for a cheer-up) but, red licorice is really hard to find here in Panama.

Not to worry though. I wear depression about as long as I'd wear plaid. NFL.

And speaking of the En-ef-eh-el-eh as it is pronounced here, and this time I mean the National Football League and not "Not For Long", is it football season yet? And if not, why not? It must be time. It seems like ages since my beloved Denver Broncos embarrassed themselves on worldwide television and it surely must be time for a repeat performance. The good old Blue and Orange rarely let me down in that regard and, at least, then and that way, I can be certain why I'm depressed. Go Broncos.

Monday, June 08, 2009

My Addiction Affliction

First I go to "Sign in", then I go to "New post" and then I go to "Coma" where I find myself in "the middle distance" engaging in "the thousand mile stare". What makes me think, I think, (when emerging from the coma) that I have anything to say when in fact I know I don't. This writing, bug? infection? addiction? would seem an easy thing (Jones?) to slough off, but I find that is not the case. Just the other day I called a member of my writeaholic support group and said:

"I'm feeling the urge to write."
"What about?" he asked.
"I have no idea" I answered.
"Then why do you want to write?" he countered.
"Because...because..." Well, I had no answer for that.
"I'll be right there" he said. "You're in big trouble."

By the time he got here it was too late. I had already started a blog and was outlining some new song lyrics. Because I had not gotten far with either project, he thought there might still be hope, so he shot me full of words-be-gone and, as the drug began to take effect, he eased me away from the keyboard. "There, there" he said, "look, here's a television! And books! And look over there. My goodness, there's other people!

It worked for awhile. I've gone as long as three days without reaching for a pen, pencil or pad. I'm not sure how long it would take for a complete recovery but I am sure I have never come close. I am clearly too much of a wimp to withstand the withdrawal. The brain spasms, the itchy fingertips, the longing for the feel of paper or the sound of a clicking keyboard are more than I can bear. Even being charged with word abuse and sentenced to oral-expressions-only didn't help. It just made me a scofflaw and a fugitive from blue pencil justice.

And so, having fallen off the wagon, here I am again, writing away with nothing to say; a hopeless purveyor of "shit-lit" looking for a kind word, a good word, the right word or, as is usually the case, any word.

Bollocks. That's a good word. Now where can I use that?

Friday, June 05, 2009

Country Club Golf

Here is my take on the golf course at Cielo Paraiso, a private country club, (Heavenly Paradise would be one translation) that we got to play a couple of times with the promise that I would write about it. If they use this for promotional purposes, - which is the plan - we hope to play there again. (If you are not a golfer this may put you to sleep.)


Cielo Paraiso
Beauty and Challenge Defined
By Doc Walton

There is a hint of something mystical about Cielo Paraiso’s golf course. Tucked in mountain and valley a short drive from downtown Boquete, it is as if the rolling fairways that meander from every tee to sculpted green were not carved from the landscape, but rather, had been there all along. Leprechauns and fairies, or Panama’s version of same, have surely been playing this wilderness track eons before mankind began recording his birdies and bogeys. Here there is a seamless flow to the course design that suggests nature should be awarded the same kudos as course architect J.Michael Poellot.

Walk with me now, golfers, and imagine playing this manicured nine.

We exit the clubhouse and wend pleasantly along a wide concrete drive enjoying the look of long vistas and elegant home sites until we arrive at the first set of tee boxes. There are four of these, ranging in length from 361 to 442 yards, allowing us to select a distance to match our skill level. Standing on the tee and looking around we can see for the first time why Cielo Paraiso’s developers, The Warner Group, are so proud of their creation. The course lies within the density of Panamanian flora and appears at once breathtaking and daunting. The “breathtaking” is the mountainous wonder of Chiriqui Province. The “daunting” is Hole Number 1. Here there is a fairway that wanders irregularly down from the tee and then rises gradually to the green. At roughly a well-hit-driver distance there grows, on the fairway, a tree to menace shots pulled left. Play too far right, though, and there are bunkers to gather your wayward ball. Should you avoid these calamities with a straight strike, a second shot to a large green will seem welcoming and do-able. Beware, additionally, of sand traps hard left and close right as well as pin placements that often require wide breaking putts.

From there we will take a short, woodsy trip to Hole Number 2. This Par 4 offers no let-up in beauty and no respite from challenge. The tees here range from 375 to 465 yards, and all are elevated. An accurate first shot to an undulating slice of green is demanded as the right side of the fairway falls steeply off, and there are bunkers lining the left to collect errant drives in that direction. Having hit down to the fairway from the elevated tee, golfers will now work their way gradually uphill to a green which is, of course, protected by sand traps and surrounded by nature. It is suggested that you avoid the first and take a moment to enjoy the second. Doing so will make the quick trip to the next hole a more pleasant experience.

When we leave the green at Number 2, our cart – did I mention we were riding an almost noiseless electric cart – will follow a winding path uphill a bit and then quite suddenly deliver the dramatic sight of Hole Number 3. What fun this is! There is a tee box here etched into the hillside overlooking a green far below. A Par 3, this hole plays from 152 to 179 yards, but it will seem longer as you watch your ball arc gracefully (we hope) down to the deceptively smooth looking green surface. There are woods beyond and to the left, sand traps both left and right, and nasty looking rough all about. Best to select the proper club for this shot, and by all or any means swing it well. Before you do, though, as you stand on the tee, look to your right. You can see forever.

It is a long drive to the tee at Number 4, which gives us time to savor our success at Number 3 or to rebound from our failure. Whatever the golfing case may be, this is the moment to push aside thoughts of pars and bogeys and concentrate fully on your surroundings. We are deep into the course now, away from human hubbub and distraction. There is the sound of a river running somewhere beyond the trees, and birds are chirping and chattering happily in abundance. There is natural beauty in every direction and a long blue sky above. Take a minute, take two or three in fact, to appreciate where you are. Then, if you are a serious golfer and aren’t we all, re-direct your focus, pull the head cover from your Big Dog, and stride to the tee. Hole Number 4 is a dogleg left that can play to 501 yards, and most of it is up there around the corner.
Making it to the dogleg with your drive is critical. Once there, the hole is a straightaway target, albeit a faraway straightaway target. There is tangled and difficult rough bordering the fairway edges. While leprechauns and fairies play here out of sight of man, gremlins await his arrival. How else to explain that terrible shot? The green, like all those here at Cielo Paraiso, is large and well tended. But don’t be fooled. There are subtle breaks lurking in the short grass. Read them carefully before rolling your ball to the hole. You may be surprised where it ends up.

Hole Number 5 is a Par 4 dogleg right spanning 413 yards from its furthest tee. There are mountains in the foreground as we stand on the tee box and an excellent view of Cielo Paraiso’s first homes rising from the hillside to our far left. The real wonder of this hole begins when we navigate the dogleg and the green comes into view. As you near, it will appear suspended and unending like an infinity pool. It floats there seemingly at the edge of the world. When at last you arrive at the green, the feeling changes little for you find yourself agape at mountainous horizons in all directions. Make your putts and spend a moment more on this fantasy green in the sky. You are in a truly unique place.

After Number 5, the sixth hole seems almost ordinary. Yet, if we take a moment to consider, there is a uniqueness to each hole at Cielo Paraiso that is seldom achieved on so many other courses, where you are likely to say, “Well now, doesn’t this look familiar?” The sixth hole here gives us another elevated tee (surely the most fun kind) from where you can see to the green some 310 to 435 yards distant, neatly nestled in front of a stand of tall trees. Beyond and above the trees, a direct view of Cielo Paraiso’s homes is afforded. A critical eye suggests their placement above the course is a natural occurrence. The incline from tee to fairway is gradual, and a wider landing area awaits a good drive. There is a sense of openness here, perhaps because of the broader fairway dimension, but do not be taken in and spray your shot left. A center or right-of-center shot will make the Sixth play easier as the fairway narrows to that side nearing the hole. The green is strategically guarded by bunkers, rough, and foliage. Whether gremlin, goblin, and ball thieving troll also reside there is a matter for conjecture, but I wouldn’t bet against it.

And then we are on to Number 7, the shortest hole on the course, a mere 150 yards from its furthest tee. You can see it there through the opening between those trees. It looks inviting if you ignore the many bunkers surrounding it, the tangled forest left and beyond, and you certainly don’t want to find yourself to the right where patches of gnarly rough could make a decent recovery shot unlikely. Just ignore what sounds like an avian chorus at the tee chirping “I dare you, I dare you” from the overhanging trees and hit your shot straight and true to the putting surface. Do that and I promise you will be lying no more than two more strokes from the hole. Whoops, didn’t read that break? Faster than you thought? Okay, make that promise three strokes.

When we stand on the tee at Number 8, I think you will agree that here is a hole that presents challenges to both the courageous and the cautious. There is a lake to the left where water witches surely dwell and thick woods close on the right. Shots sliced or hooked are more than strokes lost; they are balls lost as well. Not far to the fore there is a creek positioned by nature to drown topped shots, and there is a further rill intersecting the fairway at long drive distance. (Yardage to this creek would be useful here). The courageous may want to put his drive beyond the two hundred yard marker to shorten his next shot to this Par 4, 403 yard hole, but he best remember the fairway slopes to the water. Too far is “too bad.” The cautious will consider a safer lay-up, but that strategy entails its own risks. The shot must be positioned well left to bring the hole into view, and, of course, his next shot will be long and difficult. The sand traps short and left of
the green are easier targets to find from there than is the green itself. Long hitters of the golf ball may want to “tee it high and let it fly” in hopes of clearing all obstacles. For those bold lads I should mention that the fairway beyond the intersecting creek offers a much narrower landing area. If still they persist, I can only add, “Hit away Big Fella. This will be fun to watch!”

We turn now onto the tees at the Ninth hole, which loops back and puts the lake between the eighth and ninth fairways. This is a long Par 4, originally intended to be a 5 but shortened due to erosion problems at the hole’s termination. Either that or our mythical friends, fairies and gremlins and such, couldn’t reach the green in three, so they arranged to have the course altered to suit them. No matter. It plays from 357 yards at its shortest to 427 from the championship tee and you will find challenges aplenty from whichever of the four tees you choose. Be sure to take in the wide vistas available here as you work your way to the green, avoiding bunkers and rough. There is more than enough to tempt the eye and stir one’s imagination. When at last your approach shot lands softly on the green, card an automatic two putt and call it a round. The green here is the newest and is perhaps a season away from joining the others as pro play worthy.

If now, at the end of these spectacular and challenging nine holes, we are finished for the day, we will wend our way (regretfully) back to the clubhouse. If, however, another round is in the offing, I suggest a cold beverage, a short rest, and a bee-line back to the tee at Number 1. Bring on this course with its beauty and challenges both real and mystical. If you’re ready, I’m ready, and right now is not soon enough!


Copyright Doc Walton June 2009