"It Takes Balls To Play Golf The Way I Do!"

And clubs too!

After playing golf for the past 25 years with a set of Ping Eye-2 irons, which were used when I bought them, I realized that it was time to transition to "Senior Clubs" if I was going to improve my game to a substantial degree. Although I hit the old Pings reasonably well, I was unable to get much distance with them. Golf teaching pros recommended that I consider going to Super Game Improvement (SGI) irons, which usually feature graphite shafts, and oversize, hybrid-type heads. 

After researching what kinds of SGIs were available and the reviews online, I narrowed my choices down to a couple of different sets. When I went on a recon mission to my local golf superstore, I discovered one of my possible selections was on sale for a deeply-discounted price. I spent some time with the club fitter, and he determined the best specifications for my swing. The launch monitor revealed that on average, I got between 50 and 75 more yards from the mid and long irons/hybrids. That's the type of improvement I was seeking, so after a call to the Minister of Finance, also known as my Spousal Unit, I made the purchase. I ended up with a set of Adams 12OS hybrid-irons, which were featured on Golf Digest's 2012 "Hot List". (That's them in the photo, just in case you hadn't already figured it out.)

Since my clubs were custom fitted, it took a couple of weeks for them to arrive from the Adams factory in Texas. When they arrived, I couldn't wait to pick them up...this was the first time I had ever bought brand new irons, and it felt a lot like the first time I had purchased a new car. Granted, there isn't really such a thing as a "New Golf Club Smell", but aside from the missing olfactory reward, I got jazzed unwrapping each shiny stick from its bubble-wrap.

I've spent a couple of hours at the driving range getting used to the "Adams Family", and played nine holes yesterday afternoon at the Fort Lewis Golf Course. These clubs are by no means magic, and I've discovered that they are going to take some serious work before I'm at all consistent with 'em, but when I hit the ball just right, WOW!!! That orange sphere takes off like a 4.2 inch mortar shell, high and far.

Fortunately, the need to spend adequate practice time is supported by the return of decent weather to the Pacific NW this weekend...and my apathy toward organized religion helps me ignore the fact that tomorrow is Easter Sunday, which should result in the 9-hole practice course being less-crowded.

My goal last year was to break 90 at least once on a regular golf course (not just a nine-hole executive course like where I'm practicing tomorrow), and that didn't happen. I'm renewing that same goal for 2013, and I have the feeling these new clubs may really help me to do it. I'll let you know when it happens. 

Travels With Morrie

It was finally time. My 87 year old WWII veteran father, who resided in a private care group home in Arizona, was approaching the point when the progression of his dementia would require a higher level of medical support.  It was a tough decision, as Dad, aka "Morrie", was very happy living where he had been since 2011. If it wasn't for the growing likelihood that Morrie would need to be moved on short notice, my brothers and sister and I surely would have voted to maintain the status quo. Unfortunately, private long-term dementia care facilities are very expensive, and Morrie has only his monthly Social Security and veteran's benefit checks. The other consideration was the distance made it tougher to keep on top of Dad's progress and maintain a good interface with his medical providers.

(By the way, Dad got his alias when he lived up here with my Spousal Unit and I, and then in an assisted-living community which caters to former military folks. I regularly reserved Tuesdays to drive over from my civilian job to have lunch with Dad. Some of my more literate co-workers dubbed these lunch appointments as "Tuesdays with Morrie", and the name stuck. Hopefully, Mitch Albom won't sue us for copyright infringement.)

Fortunately, our state has a very modern and well-staffed Veteran's Residence, with a state of the art dementia care center. Morrie had been on the waiting list for this place back in 2009, but my deployment to Iraq resulted in Dad's move to Arizona. I re-submitted admission paperwork late last fall, because sometimes it can take up to a year on the waiting list before a room becomes available. This time it only took six months before I got the call to complete the final processing.

I made the preparations to bring Morrie up north with a fair amount of trepidation. He was no longer able to do most of the simple tasks, like using the restroom, without assistance. While it had been a while since he truly recognized any of his kids, he had able to fake it pretty convincingly...once a salesman, always a salesman, I guess...but that was no longer the case. One thing I had going for me was that Morrie often thinks that he is still in either the Army Air Corps or the National Guard. I decided my strategy was to tell Dad that he had received orders transferring him to Fort Lewis, and that I had been detailed to escort him to his new duty station. While I felt guilty lying to Morrie, this fictional reason behind uprooting him did seem to make sense in his universe, as he accepted it with the resignation typical of all soldiers getting Permanent Change of Station (PCS) orders.

It was one of those missions that could easily have gone either way: complete success or Epic Fail. Fortunately, thanks to a lot of folks, this one went off without any major problems. I made flight reservations on Alaska Airlines, where we have a substantial amount of frequent flyer miles accrued. I took a couple of days leave mid-week, flew down to Phoenix in late morning, rented a van to make easier access for Morrie and his luggage (I brought a gigunda, hard-sided suitcase which I use for Protective Service Detail missions, where ya gotta carry the world's supply of bulky gear.), and after checking in to my hotel I headed over to the group home.

Rowena, the group home owner and operator, definitely runs the place like it is filled with family...which it usually is! When I arrived, Dad was sitting out in the backyard, wearing his favorite straw hat, and having a semi-coherent conversation with one of the more lucid residents. While I could tell Dad had no idea who the heck I was, he greeted me jovially, and inquired if I was there to discuss the operations order. Seeing that he was in the "Army Morrie" mode, I let Dad know that I had orders for his immediate transfer to Fort Lewis, and that I was his escort. "Oh, that sounds pretty good!" was Dad's response. My youngest brother was at the house, getting ready to prepare tonight's dinner for everyone. He's a pretty talented cook, and has been the main support guy for Dad while he's been in Phoenix. While Morrie got back to his conversation with the other resident, I retrieved the suitcase from the van, and with Rowena's assistance got all of Dad's clothing and personal items packed up. There was already an old, battered roller bag from Morrie's original move to Arizona, so I crammed that piece full of old family photos and documents, and stowed both bags in the van.

After a festive dinner, and tying up loose ends of Dad's account with Rowena, I headed back to the hotel. Next morning, I headed back to the group home, picking up my brother on the way. Morrie was "Out on Pluto" as my other brother says, with no clue that he was about to embark on his penultimate adventure. No matter; I refreshed his memory, and Morrie snapped into Army Mode without complaint. We said our goodbyes, and trundled out to the waiting van. Dad happily commented every couple of minutes about the number of buildings and cars that had appeared since he was last here in 1945, followed by inquiring if we were "headed back home to California."

I really wasn't looking forward to transitioning from the Hertz rental car drop-off point to the shuttle bus ride to the terminal, having to lug two big heavy-ass suitcases and keep Morrie moving in train. Fortunately, the gentleman at the Hertz check-in line, Gary, immediately offered to have one of his folks drive us over to the terminal in the van, so we didn't have to unload luggage or anything. That was an unexpected but really welcome courtesy. The fellow who volunteered to drive us to the terminal was a really nice fellow from Northern Iraq, so we chatted about his country's current situation on the ride over.  I only had $20 cash to tip this fellow, which felt like not enough for the service rendered, but such is life.

Good things continued to go our way as I got us checked in at Alaska Airlines. The agent was (as usual for Alaska) very friendly and helpful when I asked if there was any way to get our seats moved together in the First Class cabin. (I had made our return reservations for First Class, figuring this would be the only way to make the flight somewhat tolerable and comfortable for Morrie. I hadn't been able to reserve adjoining seats, though.)  The check-in agent made a change to my seat to improve its location, and then sent a request to the gate agent to work out the rest of the move. Now unencumbered by monster luggage, we slowly made our way to the next potential obstacle; the TSA security checkpoint.

I was kind of worried that Dad's expired Washington State ID card might prove problematic, as that was the only photo identification he had. Once again, fortune smiled upon us as the TSA officer noted Morrie's escort (me) was a federal agent, so the likelihood of Morrie being AQA (Al Qaeda in Arizona) was minimal. They didn't make Morrie remove his shoes or belt, and my own screening was a breeze, so it was off to our gate in plenty of time before boarding. At the gate, yet another outstanding Alaska Airlines representative picked up the second half of the seat assignment request, and with the consent of a very agreeable fellow passenger, we were seated together...Dad in the window seat, and me on the aisle.

When we boarded, Morrie asked me if we were headed to Lowry Field, which was the airfield in Colorado where he had trained as a B-24 turret gunner. When I told him no, that we were going to Fort Lewis, he grinned and said, "Good, cuz that's where my unit is!" It was moments like that one which pretty much erased my guilt over the deception plan.  Once airborne, Morrie was fascinated by the clouds and mountains, which pretty much kept him occupied the entire flight. When lunch was served, he devoured his hot turkey melt sandwich, and settled back for a nap. We did experience one "not for publication" moment on the flight, involving the First Class restroom and a very understanding flight attendant, but it was mostly smooth sailing.

SeaTac Airport proved easy to negotiate, and I had parked close to the Alaska baggage claim skyway, so in a matter of minutes we were cruising down I-5 in the carpool lane. Morrie was astounded at the overcast skies, cool temperature, intermittent rain showers, and most of all, the abundance of greenery. (I could relate, as it was the same way I had felt the day I returned home from Iraq.) We made it to the Veterans Home by late afternoon, and began the lengthy check-in process. It reminded me of the first day of Army Basic Training, minus the yelling drill sergeants. I had to inventory and mark every piece of Morrie's clothing with his serial number, then stow it all in the wardrobe and dresser drawers in his room. The medical staff and activities director did their preliminary intake stuff, which Morrie took in stride after I reminded him again that this was the usual procedure when signing in to a new unit. I had planned to eat dinner with Dad, but when the meal was served I was still busy marking and folding, so the nurses escorted him to meet his new mess hall buddies while I finished up. I had just completed putting everything away and briefing the activities director about Morrie's background when he returned from chow...wearing someone else's travel vest. Turned out it belonged to his neighbor, Ray, who either loaned it to Dad to wear during dinner, or Dad saw it on the back of Ray's chair and decided he liked it. At any rate, Ray came looking for his vest, which had his glasses in one of the pockets. Dad pulled out Ray's specs, and said happily, "I've been looking all over for these!" I stopped him from trying to put them on over his own glasses, and gave both the glasses and vest back to Ray.

By now Dad was completely tuckered out, so I got him ready for bed. He said, "I think I like this place..." before dropping off to sleep. Although I knew he'd need to be re-oriented in the morning, it seemed like an agreeable end to this episode of "Travels With Morrie."

On Being of Irish Ancestry

You don't have to be a detective to figure out that anyone using the pen name, "The Fighting Leprechaun" more than likely claims Irish heritage. Although my father's family never much discussed our background when I was growing up, one of my cousins gathered a substantial amount of genealogical information about our Irish ancestors, and shared it with me about four years ago.

Our Celtic family came from County Wicklow, which is in the southeast area of what is now the Republic of Ireland. They immigrated to Australia in the 1850s, not as convicts, but rather to homestead and farm. From there, the lure of the California Gold Rush brought the family to Northern California, which is where my grandfather, father, and I were born and raised.

I had several nicknames in junior high and high school, most of which were not very complimentary, but my favorite was "The Leprechaun". Maybe it was the combination of my diminutive stature, reddish-brown hair, and very ruddy complexion, or perhaps that I was always involved in some sort of shenanigans which earned me that nickname, as I do not have a last name readily associated with being of Irish heritage. When I became a cop, and was assigned to a detachment where everyone was assigned a nickname, once again I became The Leprechaun. (This was greatly preferable to the other tag my teammates gave me, "Bald Boinker", which was indeed intended to be flattering, but it's not the kind of handle a respectable deputy sheriff wants to be known by, right?)

I developed a great fondness for Irish music, food, and history, and on occasion sported a faux Irish brogue which some confused with a Swedish accent, but without a clear understanding of my Irish roots, I was just a phony "Eireaphile" (yep, just made that word up!) Once I learned that I did indeed come from legitimate Irish forefathers, I decided that I had better cement the deal by actually visiting Ireland.

Thanks to my supportive Spousal Unit, we were able to tour the Emerald Isle last September, said tour being documented in this blog with a small fraction of photos and narrative that we gathered there. Even more significant than actually walking the streets of Wicklow, and visiting the old Gaol where family legend has it that my great-grandfather was briefly incarcerated, was the connection to Ireland fostered by our tour guide, Stephen McPhilemy. Steve wasn't just our tour guide...he brought us through the secret door, taught us the secret handshake, and helped us see beyond the veneer that most tourists are limited to.

I was reminded of this connection to my Irish heritage last night, when I got the word that Steve and a fine fellow named Liam O'Riordan,  a retired Garda and most excellent singer/musician/songwriter, who I'd gotten to know in Kinsale, were at Kells Irish Pub in Seattle this weekend. Hanging out with these guys reinforced how unique the Irish are, and to be part of that is something I am truly grateful for. Make no mistake, I know that I'm not an actual Irishman, merely an American of Irish heritage, but the affinity and the bonds are there nonetheless. It feels very good.

New Book: Harry Potter and the Hat of Ass

Where Harry, Ron, and Hermione seek to discover which members of Congress have been replaced by Dementors and Death Eaters.

My Experience With the VA; Forrest Gump's Box of Chocolates

The Veteran's Administration, or VA for short, has been receiving its share of criticisms for the past four decades, mostly in regard to how they handle service-connected disability claims. There have been some significant improvements to philosophy and funding since about 2006, but the vast numbers of us combat veterans returning from Iraq and Afghanistan, when added to our predecessors from WWII, Korea, and Vietnam, have clearly overwhelmed the VA Healthcare System's ability to keep up.

My own experience with the VA has mirrored Forrest Gump's box of chocolates, in that I never know what I'm going to get. Although I was briefed very extensively about the VA benefits I was entitled to after I returned from Iraq in 2010, including five full years of free medical care, I delayed signing up because I immediately resumed my civilian job, which provided decent health insurance for me and my Spousal Unit for several hundred bucks each month. I figured that the VA Healthcare System was crowded enough with vets who didn't have access to other health insurance, so why add to that burden.

Eventually, I did sign up at the local VA facility, which is located only a few minutes from where I live. I was initially told I didn't qualify, until I pointed out (using their own literature I was handed during my outprocessing) that I was a returning combat veteran. Oops! The registration folks apologized, added me to the database, and assigned me to one of the outpatient clinics. They took my photo for my VA ID card, and told me to make an appointment for an initial exam once I had received my ID card in the mail. Well....I never got that ID card, and since my civilian health insurance was working just fine, I put it out of my mind.

My other reason to deal with the VA arose when my WWII veteran father needed assistance with his own care. He was developing dementia, which meant he could no longer live on his own. I learned about a new VA program, called the "Aid and Attendance Benefit", which provides financial support to war veterans, regardless of whether or not they have a service-connected disability, so that they may afford assisted-living or nursing home facilities. It's an excellent program, but at the time very few of the VA's employees were aware of its existence. Consequently, even though my father clearly qualified for this benefit, his application kept getting rejected on the grounds that he didn't have a service-connected disability. By this point I had a General Power of Attorney for my dad, and began following up with the Regional VA Office in Seattle. One "helpful" bureaucrat advised me to re-apply with a brand new application, instead of appealing his original request. Since I had familiarized myself with the applicable VA regulations, I quickly realized if I had followed this guy's suggestion, if my dad's claim was approved, it would not be retroactive to the original application date (which was over a year ago). I finally asked for help from our U.S. Senator, Patty Murray, who has proven herself to be one of the most relentless and effective advocates for military and veterans ever elected to Congress. Within two weeks after contacting Sen. Murray's office, the VA approved my dad's application, retroactive to his original submission date. (To the VA's credit, once Dad's benefits were granted, they have continued uninterrupted with zero bureaucratic foolishness involved.)

While I was deployed, my father had to be moved to a group home in the Phoenix, Arizona area, as he required a greater level of care than the assisted living residence up here could provide. He was signed up for medical care through the Phoenix VA Healthcare System, which provided excellent primary care. I flew down there about a year ago and met with his VA social worker, Ms. "T", who is a caring professional, and clearly passionate about serving veterans. I knew my father was in good hands with Ms. T as his advocate. Each time I had to communicate with the Phoenix VA folks, I got what I needed, including straight answers and no dumb obstacles.

When it came time to make arrangements to move my father back up here, to take up residence in the Washington State Veterans Home in Retsil, WA where he could receive full-time dementia care, part of the admissions process required me to obtain a copy of his VA medical records. Knowing that the VA has everyone's records online, I checked with the same local VA hospital where I had signed up, and was directed to the "Release of Information" office. I drove over there, and contrary to what I had been told on the phone, a different clerk said she couldn't access records from another clinic. She offered to fax my request to Phoenix, so I filled out the records release request form, and handed it to the clerk. She assured me I'd have the records in the mail within a week or so.

(While I was at the facility, I stopped by the registration office to inquire about my never-arrived VA ID card. The clerk looked up my online file, said there was no need to have my picture taken because my digital photo taken the last time was there in the file, and he'd have another card mailed to me. About 45 minutes later, a woman from the ID office called me and asked me if I could return, because they needed my photo in order to do my ID card. When I explained about the clerk saying that he had seen my photo in my computer file, she told me I was wrong, that I must have misunderstood the clerk. Needless to say, I still don't have a VA ID card.)

Anyway, three weeks went by, and no records arrived. I found the number for the Phoenix VA "Release of Information" office and called to inquire about the status of my request. "Sorry, sir, we've never received any request for your father's records," a polite fellow named "Greg" told me. "Greg" explained that I could simply fax him a letter requesting those records, (He'd verified my Power of Attorney, which I had provided the Phoenix folks when I met with them.), and they'd get 'em in the mail. I faxed off the letter as directed. Ten days later, I started to get antsy, as I feared the space the WA Vets Home was holding for my dad might be given away. I called the Phoenix Records office again, and spoke to "Connie". She verified that they had received my request, but it might be another week or so before it could get processed. I explained my dad's situation to "Connie", and her response was fast and concise: "Give me your street address, and I'll overnight the file to you." Boom! Just like that, a dedicated Phoenix VA employee cut through all the red tape, and solved my problem. Two days later, I hand-carried my father's records to the WA Vets Home Admissions Coordinator. Turned out that they needed one more form to be completed by the Phoenix VA. I scanned and emailed the form to Ms. "T", and it was faxed back to the WA Vet's Home a few hours later.

So now my father is "Good to Go", thanks in large part to the outstanding assistance from the staff at the Phoenix VA Healthcare System Team. I am very grateful for their dedication and professionalism.
As for my local VA Healthcare System Team...they have so far earned a grade of "EPIC FAIL". When it eventually comes time for me to actually use their medical services, I will likely provide an updated grade report...but for now, I'm sincerely glad that I have alternatives.

iPhone Update: "It's ALIVE!!!"

I scheduled an appointment with a "Genius" at the local Apple Store, using the online webpage. I figured I'd call the store in advance to make sure I brought all needed hardware and documentation. Spoke to a dude who asked me when the WiFi access went sideways. When I replied, "Right after I uploaded iOS 6.1," he said, "We've seen this issue before. Try re-booting your Wireless Router."
I did that, and like magic, my iPhone was happily connected to my wireless network once again.

Fifty points to the Apple Genius guy for both fixing the problem AND getting me out of a trip to the mall! Five days later, and all systems are working fine.

So Tired of Political Crap!

One of the many downsides of having my lungs all dorked up is that I am not getting anything near my normal amounts of sleep and exercise. I can't even hold a conversation for more than 30 seconds before the coughing spasms pretty much end it.

This has left me much more short-tempered and intolerant than usual. As a result, I have become really frickin' tired of all the political bullcrap spewing out of the television and the internet. I can't seem to escape it. If I read the newspaper, easily 70% of the articles are related to some form of domestic political conflict. My Spousal Unit is fascinated by several of the programs on one particular political TV channel, so there's an hour or two of strident ranting injected into every evening. (Throw in that angry asshole Judge Judy, another program SU is fond of, and my brain is ready to explode!) The local and national TV news is of course saturated with bits about sequestration, cabinet nominations, fillibusters, and the (mostly) overweight white people showing up everywhere with handguns and assault rifles, demonstrating against any perceived infringement of their "rights" to prepare for armed insurrection against the federal government.

This glut of politically-themed fighting on the TV has led me to retreat from the living room for hours at a time. Now if it was summertime, and I wasn't coughing like a lawnmower filled with five year old gasoline, I would likely head for the pastoral pleasures of a golf course or driving range. Baseball season is on the horizon, (Pitchers and Catchers have reported to Spring Training!!!), so I'll have the relaxing refuge of listening to a ballgame on the radio very, very soon.  But it occurred to me that I have   another opportunity arising from my aversion to the tsunami of politics and stupidity, combined with the physical infirmity; I can spend those cloistered hours working on my novel!

Yep, even though sleep deprivation will reduce the overall quality of what I write, at least I'll have something to edit once I am again "Fully Functional". Shouldn't be much different from cranking out all those term papers in college at the eleventh hour, typing away (when we relied upon actual typewriters, and the clacking sound helped keep us awake.) and producing pages of brilliant critical thinking, which often turned out to be less than brilliant when viewed in the cold light of professorial scrutiny.

Looks like a short-term solution is at hand. Let's get to work!