The Roar of the Tiger

Anyone with a passing interest in golf, or American sports, is now confronted with the Tiger Effect.

UPDATE: Tiger Woods stunned and enraptured the sportsworld with his showing in last week’s Valspar Championship in Florida where he finished a close second place, his highest finish in nearly five years. NBC Sports says they had more TV viewers for the final round than any non-major tournament since then. The resurgent golfer attracted more TV viewers last week than all the majors in 2017 except The Masters. His comeback, if he continues to play at this level, could well be the sports story of the year.

Last week the odds were 10/1 that Tiger will win the Masters Tournament at Augusta National in April, the first of the four majors this year. His monetary value is beyond comprehension. He attracts viewers as nobody else. People want to see him win. It’s as though their dreams are riding on Tiger.

Tickets for a single-day pass to the Masters Tournament in April are going for  $3,000 because Tiger is in the hunt. He's back. They say. Las Vegas says the odds of him winning this year's Masters are 16/1 following his performance at last week's Honda Classic in Palm Beach, FL. Fans are tingling and money is jingling. The Tiger Machine at work. Tiger made the cut and finished even par for the four-day tournament. His drives led the field in length. Still, there is a stable of young, talented stallions including 22-year-old Justin Thomas itching to win and doing it. Should they fear the Tiger, they are not showing it. Money says maybe they should. Fans want to see him
come back, especially if they're willing to pay $3,000 to watch him play in person. But then, he is Tiger, once the most dominant and well known athlete in the world.

Tiger finds his ball outside the ropes.

It is a homecoming party and everyone is invited. Old and young, male and female. Husbands and wives. Parents and children. Sports fans and celebrity seekers. Some are wealthy who will find comfort inside their private clubhouse with balcony views, martinis and big screens, but most are just plain everyday folks like you and I, who will scatter across the grasses and through the wooded canyon looking for places they might post up and get a glimpse. They come from all corners of Los Angeles: the Valley, the Eastside, South Bay, the Westside and Watts. Above all, they come with one thing in mind: to see the mighty Tiger.

What is this thing called Tiger? What is it that he has that makes him so special? That would draw so much attention and awe and support. Yes, support. And encouragement. Nary a spectator present would utter a discouraging word lest he be called a traitor, or banished with boos and hisses, smothered by the throngs of well wishers who are here to see him succeed and show the world that he can still perform at the most elite level: top of the heap. He was there once. Oh, but was he! He dominated the game for nearly a decade. He can do it again. And he's got... what is it exactly? The man possesses star power that you don't find in ordinary men.

"Go Tiger," the call from the crowd.

"We love you, Tiger!"

"You're the greatest!"

"Sure, he's had some personal problems but that's over."

"He's back."

Where is he? Did you see him? He's on the practice green. People swarm, necks strain. Tiger is here.

Tiger on the practice green

He's dressed in light green and beige, wearing white shoes and a white cap. His concentration is such that he appears not to notice or be aware of the commotion that follows him. But he knows. We know he knows. He looks fit and athletic, a healthy specimen at age 42. His skin is dark but not black. His lips are full and protrude, upper and lower, like a budding flower. His eyes belie his African American blood. They are neatly curved and horizontal, surely inherited from his Asian mother. He's concentrating on his putts as though in deep meditation.

"Yo, Tiger!"

"There he is," a father tells his young son.

We are here at the posh Riviera Country Club in Pacific Palisades, California where the sky is cerulean and clear, golden sunlight dapples green fairways and the temperature hovers at a pleasant 72 degrees. This is Santa Monica Canyon which curves up from the nearby coastline forming an enclosed 243 acres that include 18 beautifully sculpted golf holes. Designed by George C. Thomas, Jr., Riviera opened for play in 1926 during the Golden Age of Sports when boxing, baseball and golf produced kings and ticker tape parades.

"The Riv," as the locals call it, boasts a pedigree that few golf venues can match. The 1948 U.S. Open was held here, the first golf "major" played on the West Coast. Ben Hogan, one of golf deities, won that tournament and The Riv became his favorite playground. There's a statue of Hogan next to the practice green where Tiger is rolling in putts in preparation for the second round of today's version of the L.A. Open, called the Genesis. What is Genesis? An origin a creation, perhaps a "new beginning" for our fallen hero. In truth, it's a luxury sedan produced by Hyundai, another signature of a game gone corporate.

Add Tiger.

Stir in lots of people.

It's a recipe for good marketing.

The general manager of Genesis explains to Forbes magazine that he is very pleased with the Tiger Effect that has ushered in a wide audience to see the new automobile brand. Two Genesis sedans, black and white, shine brightly on display inside the gates.

Tiger played in his first pro tournament right here at The Riv in 1992, which seems like a century ago, when he was a 16-year-old sophomore in high school and an ascending star. A phenom. The glitterati have always frolicked here. Greta Garbo owned a house above the 13th hole where, as legend goes, she could watch Clark Gable and Katherine Hepburn play. This is Tiger Territory. Welcome back, Tiger. We love you. But do they know that Tiger has never, even at the top of his dominating game, won a tournament here?

If they do, this fact in no way discourages his army. His army believes in him. Tiger is not only a golfer. He is bigger than that. He is celebrity. His game has been on hiatus for a few years, following a string of surgeries and personal improprieties that might cloud lesser characters of mere mortal status. Swept up in a whirlwind of fame and ill-fame exacerbated by tabloids and talk show and torrents of media frenzy, Tiger moves on. Tiger is not a has-been. Tiger is making a comeback.

"Come on, Tiger!"

Rory McIlroy is distracted while lining up a chip shot.

He must shoot even par on this Friday to make the cut for the weekend. His threesome includes twenty-somethings, brawny Rory McIlroy from Northern Ireland and newcomer Justin Thomas from Kentucky, both of whom must shake off the surrounding storm that comes with Tiger.

"Quiet, please!" The signs are held up when a player addresses his ball. Still, there is a rustling and bustling that surrounds this group. Many of the gallery are not familiar with golf ettiquette. But they know celebrity. They perform the "cell phone salute," holding up their iPhones in unison to snap photos to show their friends and relatives and everyone else, that they were here. They saw Tiger. Here is proof!

By the 11th hole, Tiger is three over par and making bogeys not birdies. It is becoming clear that he likely will not make the cut. Still he is cheered on. He has the support of his army. Every shot is a photo op and time for an encouraging word.

"Great shot, Tiger!"

The black birds are chirping wildly in the leafless gnarly white-limbed sycamore trees, the only sign that it's winter in L.A. A plaque near the 12th green tells us that the big sycamore guarding that green is called "Bogey's Tree" in honor of the late movie actor Humphrey Bogart. An afternoon breeze is beginning to blow off the ocean sending a minor chill through the canyon. The army continues to swarm.

From the stately Spanish-revival style Clubhouse atop the highest point on the golf course above the 18th green, look to the west down that fairway -- once known as "Hogan's Alley" -- and you will see the blue Pacific Ocean and the outline of Catalina Island. Turn to the east and you will note the rugged ridge of the brownish-purple San Gabriel Mountains, beyond Pasadena. There are few other outdoor places in Los Angeles that you would rather be, tucked away from the throngs. Except, perhaps, on this weekend when all of Los Angeles is invited in. And Tiger is here. Members such as Larry David, Adam Sandler and Tom Brady have vacated the premises. They no doubt can see Tiger anytime, by appointment.

But Tiger is not performing well. His score is bleeding into an ugly figure. It is evident that he will be eliminated for the weekend. Tiger's countenance transforms. For the first time today he smiles and you see his white teeth that contrast perfectly with his dark skin. His meditation has broken. He is chatting casually out in the middle of the fairway with his playing partner Rory McIlroy, far from the madding crowd.

On the 18th and final green, Tiger is greeted by a large audience that fills the grassy hillside amphitheatre overlooking the hole. A loud ovation echoes through the canyon as though an incredible shot has been played. But it's not a shot. It's Tiger. Cell phones are lifted. Spirits are high. Tiger tips his cap. He rolls in a putt for par. He has scored a 76, five over par. Ugh. He will not be here tomorrow. But he will still be beloved.

"He's back," says one enthusiastic fan. "He's in good shape, just needs practice."

Spreading the Love

"Sounds across the nation
Coming from your hearts and minds
Battered drums and old guitars
Singing songs of passion
It's the truth they all look for
The one thing they must keep alive
Will the wolf survive?
Will the wolf survive? -- Los Lobos



People make our lives rich. I have friends who might disagree with that statement, claiming they find richness in nature and animals more so than people. But isn’t that what people do? We disagree. Nature impresses me beyond belief and sustains my soul with her power and perfection, but people, especially friends, keep me company, amaze and inspire me with their strengths and talents and ideas.

One such character who crossed my path many years ago was Patrick Aloysius Murphy. That was the name he gave himself when he reinvented his life at about age 39. It was a bigger than life name for someone who was just about as off-beat and eccentric, with a self-proclaimed IQ of 164. His unruly red hair sprouted out of his head like a burning bush. Yet he kept a trim Van Dyke beard that tapered into a lingering curl of hair below his chin the likes of Lucifer himself. Sometimes I wondered if that was intended. But he was all about peace and love. I discovered that he was sincere, yet irascibly disagreeable at times.

He smoked cheap cigarettes, never inhaling, and regularly self-medicated from a handy pipeful of pot. He never touched alcohol. As unlikely as he appeared, he was also socially inept by conventional standards. He left an indelible impression on me, a sense of wonder and fear. He was the most well-read person I have ever known with an encyclopedic knowledge of history, politics, arts and culture. He was my right-hand "adviser" during the years I was editor of several special-interest publications.

I use the past tense because I lost track of Murphy when he disappeared from his rented apartment in Capitola where he had resided for nearly 30 years, seen frequently in his cut-off shorts with his hair flying in the wind riding his bicycle to market. He was near 80-years-old and living off of coupons, crumbs and sub-letting rooms in his apartment. He always seemed to be one step away from the street. This was my fear: How would he survive as he aged?  He was too hard-headed for any institutionalized living, including homeless shelters.

He had no family. He was given up by his mother at birth and never knew his father. He claimed he was adopted by a doctor and his wife, who couldn’t handle their new son. He basically grew up on the streets south of San Francisco, frequenting card rooms and topless bars, running scams, ingesting drugs and alcohol, until things began to unravel. He claimed to have received electro-shock therapy. Through it all, however, he was wise enough to see the goodness in people and I believe that’s what saved him at the end of his first life, when I met him. He loved the arts and those who practiced art to lift the human spirit and caress the soul in the undying hope of making the world a better place.

La Bamba

Murphy was a master of the telephone. He had the gift of gab to go along with his broad spectrum of knowledge and his understanding of the down trodden. During the years we worked together he helped set up interviews for me with water-sport pioneer Jack O’Neill, music impresario Bill Graham, actor Jack Lemon and writer-director Luis Valdez, author of the musical, Zoot Suit as well as the 1987 film, La Bamba. Murphy learned early of the making of the film and the family ties in nearby Watsonville to the star and subject of La Bamba, the late Ritchie Valens (surname short for Valenzuela).

By the time the film was ready for screening, Murphy had made friends with the entire extended family. This included Ritchie's real life, hardscrabble half-brother, Bob Morales, played in the film by Esai Morales. I wrote a feature piece about Bob Morales that appeared in two regional publications and was picked up by a local TV station, thanks to Murphy. Morales was a badass Chicano biker who had turned his life around to become a drug addiction counselor. It was Murphy's kind of story: Pull yourself up from addiction and make something of yourself. With the movie, Morales had also become part of an art production.

Following release of the film, Murphy and I interviewed David Hidalgo at the Catalyst nightclub in Santa Cruz . Hidalgo is lead singer of Los Lobos, the band from East LA that recorded the majority sound track for the movie, including their now signature song, La Bamba, which had been a hit by Valens in 1958, the first Mexican-American rock star. Ritchie died in the infamous 1959 plane crash with Buddy Holly and "The Big Bopper," immortalized in song as "the day the music died." In 2017 the film La Bamba was selected for preservation in the U.S. National Film Registry by the Library of Congress as being "culturally, historically and aesthetically significant."

On Assignments

Murphy and I attended various events together, he in his cut-offs, funky T-shirts, black leather shoes and high black socks, and of course his duffer's hat festooned with numerous peace buttons. We attended American Booksellers Association (ABA) conventions in Las Vegas and Anaheim, at one time the major trade-show and launch for new books. Here authors would hold press briefings about their new work in front of a small audience of reporters.

Murphy typically would ask the most provocative questions. He asked Ann Rice, author of several vampire novels, "How did your Catholic upbringing influence your writing about vampires?" He was likely the only one in the room who had researched her background from childhood. Rice down-played any such influence. Perhaps she hadn't thought about it. I thought Murphy's question was legitimized in a recent interview by Terri Gross of NPR's "Fresh Air," when she asked singer-songwriter Bruce Springsteen basically the same question. Springsteen agreed that his early Catholicism with its religious symbolism and sense of story deeply influenced his songwriting.

We were in Anaheim shortly after David Crosby, of CSNY fame, was released from jail following a drug possession conviction. Crosby played a short concert in the convention theater. Murphy insisted on sitting front row center. After the show, Crosby left the stage only to be greeted by a broad-grinning Patrick Aloysius Murphy, congratulating Crosby for his comeback from drugs. The two of them locked in a strong, manly embrace. It was a scene I will never forget. Murphy was in heaven.

Another image I have is from a dream that Murphy shared with me in which he was sitting at a table, smoking cigarettes and discussing the art of writing with the late American literary stylist Truman Capote. I thought it was perfect and if I ever did get a chance to write about Murphy I would include that image of himself.  One very late night in Las Vegas following a day at the ABA conference, Murphy arrived back at our hotel room extremely excited. He had spent the past couple of hours hanging with novelist Ken Kesey and some old Prankster friends from the '60s. Kesey was at the convention promoting a revival of his cross-country LSD-infused journey called "Further." I could see those guys hitting it off. I fell back asleep with a smile on my face. One flew over the cuckoo's nest, indeed.

Murphy called himself a "peaceful anarchist." He believed in the Divine Goddess as the ultimate natural power, our Mother, an alien notion to our patriarchal power structure. He would be proud of the current "me too" movement by women, taking back their dignity.

The Olympic Games

Our final collaboration was a trip to the 1996 Olympic Games in Atlanta, Georgia, I had transitioned into another field but when Murphy called me with this opportunity, I jumped liked a frisky puppy. Always a spend-thrift, he had been rummaging around a dumpster at his apartment complex when he came across a large coupon: "Win a trip to the Olympic Games courtesy of Coca Cola." He sent in the form. When he learned that he had won, he called me. "I know you love sports," he said."I thought you'd like to go to the Olympic Games with me."

Before you could say, "Georgia peaches," we found ourselves in a big room in Atlanta, GA decked in voluminous Coco Cola swag among a very friendly congregation of professional coupon clippers. They were hollering and hugging like long lost cousins. While the Opening Ceremonies were unveiling in the nearby stadium, we were jostling with our contest brethren in a carpeted meeting room where a television was broadcasting those very same Opening Ceremonies. Free Coke for everyone! Atlanta is of course, corporate headquarters for Coca Cola. They might as well have called those Olympics the "Coke Games."

We did get to see Olympic competitions including men's team gymnastics and a baseball game between the United States and Nicaragua. "Go Sandinistas!" cried Murphy. During the men's gymnastics, I commented that the Chinese team members weren't as buff-looking with bulging muscles as were the Russians and USA team. Murphy replied, "That's because they're smarter."

We had a lot of fun getting out of the Olympic Center and roaming around greater Atlanta. The swag included tokens to ride the Atlanta mass transit (MARTA). We visited Civil War sites, town squares and Marietta, GA, home of then Senator Newt Gingrich, whom we discovered was not a popular citizen thereabouts. We spread the love, as Murphy would say, hobnobbing with as many locals as possible -- from southern gentlemen and their lady belles to obsequious African-American transit passengers -- two guys from Santa Cruz on a mission, probing the human heart.

Pat, thank you, wherever you are. Peace be with you.


"Today I don't need a replacement
I'll tell them what the smile on my face meant
My heart going boom, boom, boom
'Hey,' I said, 'You can keep my things
They've come to take me home.' " -- Peter Gabriel

Rockin in the Golf World

Neil Young playing Pebble Beach, 2003

Among the celebrities swinging their sticks at the AT&T National Pro-Am at Pebble Beach this week, there is one name that you won't see: Neil Young.

This is not because the iconic rock star does not play the game, because he does. Or at least he did. He was lured into the Royal and Ancient Game when he was growing up in eastern Canada. His mother belonged to a golf country club there and Neil's older brother, Bob, was an excellent golfer. Yet the name Neil Young and golf resonate cognitive dissonance for many of his longtime fans whose image of Neil have him holding a guitar, not a nine-iron.

To the surprise of many such fans, including me, Neil, at age 57, was among the amateur celebrities who showed up at Pebble to play in the AT&T in 2003. His presence in the tournament was stealthy and would be his only one. There was no pre-publicity. No TV coverage or media hoopla. Only astute followers of the game would have known, and word did slowly get around. By the time Neil reached the back-nine at Spyglass Hill on his first day, he had a small but distinctive gallery following him. It was a group -- in feathered hats, long coats, jeans and boots -- that would have made more sense at a rock concert than a sedate golf course in Del Monte Forrest.

Once known as the "Crosby Clambake," the now corporate AT&T Pro-Am that comes to the Monterey Peninsula is still considered a big party of celebrities and professional golfers playing together in a unique format that includes amateurs on the course into the final round on Sunday broadcast on national television from Pebble Beach. In addition to some of the top golfers in the world -- and their amateur partners -- it is pure eye candy for viewers along this beautiful stretch of coastline.

The week of the tournament many locals who enjoy golf will grab a copy of Wednesday's San Francisco Chronicle to read the pairings of celebs and pros and where they will be playing. There are three golf courses involved: Spyglass Hill, Monterey Peninsula and Pebble Beach Golf Links. Perusing that list in 2003 the name Neil Young showed up, partnered with professional golfer, Chris Riley (not a big name). Neil had never played in the tournament so you could easily have guessed that it was not the same grunge-style rock star. Rockers who were known to play golf included Alice Cooper and Huey Lewis, who was one of the first rock 'n rollers to play in the AT&T. But never Neil.

Word started to spread, including a mention on KPIG Radio, a Santa Cruz area station. "It looks like Neil Young will be playing," announced one of the DJs that morning. I was on my way to the tournament and the radio comment confirmed that it was, indeed, the same Neil Young. According to the pairings, he would be at Spyglass.

Spyglass Hill, which opened for play in 1966, is a dynamic golf course that takes advantage of being both near the sea and in the woods. The course starts at the ocean, with gorgeous contours along the craggy shoreline, and winds back into the dense forest. Locating the golfers requires referencing names and their order based on tee times. One of the wonderful features of attending a pro golf tournament, especially that includes celebrities, is that you can walk the course and follow your favorite players, at times getting within a few feet of the competitors if, for example, their ball lands near where you're standing.

Walking from the 18th hole backwards I figured I would eventually run into Neil. By the time I reached the 15th hole I spied that gaggle of gallery that stood out like a polka party at the opera. These were Neill's people, for sure. There he was strolling down the fairway in beige-colored attire and matching floppy brimmed hat. He displayed a decent swing but the results were not so pretty. Still, he moved along without screaming or pounding his club into the ground when he missed a shot. He was a true golfer, accepting his fate with a modicum of grace and steadiness. It is not a game for the emotionally weak.

I felt as though I were backstage at a rock concert, hanging with the fans (okay, groupies). By the 18th hole, it was clear that Neil was not exactly tearing it up. He had "picked up" on most of the holes, meaning in respect for his partner and time, he had not completed a couple of holes. I had the feeling that the pressure of being watched swinging a golf club was more humbling to him than playing soulful guitar licks.

I had to at least get a few words from him for my story. When he completed his round I walked up to him and started to say something stupid, like "What the hell are you doing here?" but he saw me coming. "I'll be right back," he said. "I have to go to the bathroom."

I turned to the woman in the cowboy hat who had been standing next to him. She said she was Pegi Young, Neil's wife. She seemed relaxed and we began to chat. She told me that Neil played golf with her father and that he and some of his band members liked to play golf when they were on tour. We were having a nice conversation when Neil returned. He seemed a little miffed that I was having such a good time with his wife. Maybe I was reading into it. He was slowly being surrounded by fans. And he accommodated a couple of young guys with sound equipment who asked him to do a short plug for their radio station.

Neil didn't make the cut that week. He has not returned to the tournament, that year being his sole appearance. A year or so ago I read that he and Pegi had split up. I thought she was pretty cool and was sorry to hear that.

The First Super Bowl

"There must be some way out of here
said the Joker to the Thief
There's too much confusion
I can't get no relief."

Packers QB Bart Starr, MVP of Super Bowl I

I remember the first Super Bowl, January 15, 1967 because it was played on my 20th birthday. I was a sophomore at UC Santa Barbara living in an apartment in Isla Vista, a student community adjacent to campus, with three other guys. The university had recently changed from semester system to quarterly classes and we were near or on a quarterly break in mid January. Although I hadn't been following football, we didn't have a TV and I wasn't reading the newspapers very often, this first game between the two professional football leagues was receiving enough hype that I heard about it.

Since it was my birthday my girlfriend, Linda, was visiting me from out of town. She brought a chocolate cake to the apartment where we had a small celebration. I was slightly embarrassed in front of my male roommates but appreciated the gesture which was honest and heartfelt. Everyone likes cake and a party. Turning 20 I felt as though I were entering a limbo between teen life, which had dried up some time ago, and becoming a full-fledged adult with voting rights, and alcohol-purchasing privileges. I was somewhere in between and it was obvious.

When Linda visited we would stay in a motel in nearby Goleta or in town in Santa Barbara. Our guys' apartment had had its share of female guests -- one of my roommates was a true Don Juan -- but Linda and I were dying to get away by ourselves. We would see each other every one or two months, alternating being visitor or host. I would venture south to Upland where she was living either by hitch-hiking, getting a ride with a fellow student who was going that way, or borrowing a car. During that period I did not own a motor vehicle or even a stereo, let alone a TV. I had compiled a very small record  collection that included The Beatles "Rubber Soul," the Steve Miller Band's "Sailor," and Bob Dylan's "John  Wesley Harding," in which he introduced his classic "All Along the Watchtower."

The big sounds in our apartment were coming from San Francisco, with the Jefferson Airplane and the Grateful Dead, and from Los Angeles through the voice of Jim Morrison and the Doors. Perceptual enhancements were often consumed and strange visitors would come and go. Fraternities and sororities were still in flower yet there was a gradual movement undermining the old status quo, apparent in the throwback western-style outfits and hirsute faces and heads of a few in the philosophy and English departments. There was also a small group of protesters in front of the library on Wednesdays in silent vigil against the war in Vietnam. Isla Vista was still made up of mostly mainstream middle class kids, however. I considered myself fairly mainstream, with a dash of discontent that yanked on me like a wild dog on a leash.

My relationship with Linda had been an on-and-off affair since early high school. Overall we had stuck together through the good, bad and sometimes ugly years of growing up. We always seemed to get back together which indicated to me that we had a good thing. I really couldn't identify with too much of what was going on at UCSB. I seemed to be one of the few students to have a job. I was hired by the owners of a small cafe in the heart of Isla Vista as the busboy-dishwasher-janitor, following a day of weeding I had done for them on their hillside property. I've never had a problem with hard work. My instincts at that time were that I needed a good job where I could be creative. Above all I wanted to write. I had a student deferment from being drafted and sent most likely to Vietnam. I had to maintain 15-units per quarter to keep the deferment.

Since it was my birthday I told Linda that I wanted to watch the big football game, which became known as Super Bowl I after the fact. It was being touted as "super" because it matched the winning team of both professional leagues -- the original NFL against he upstart AFL. There was a new high-rise dormitory in Isla Vista and I had heard that the game would be shown on TV in the dorm lounge.

The lounge was crowded with an audience of students lured by the media frenzy, even in 1967. They had gathered in front of a television set, not a screen. It was definitely a happening. The famed Green Bay Packers led by their storied, hard-ass coach, Vince Lombardi, were pitted against the Kansas City Chiefs. It was a close contest until the second half when the Chiefs began to falter and the mighty team from Green Bay dominated under the direction of their low-key but steady quarterback Bart Starr in a 35-10 victory. That day the Packers were America's team.

It would be two more years, January 1969, before an AFL team would finally defeat the NFL in Super Bowl III, led by the most flamboyant player of that period, quarterback Joe Namath (aka "Broadway Joe"), whose underrated New York Jets upset the Baltimore Colts, as he had predicted, in a close and thrilling game, 16-7. By that short time later, Linda and I were married and living in a small apartment in Claremont. I had my first letter published in a sports column defending Broadway Joe who had been maligned by czar NFL commissioner Pete Rozelle for Joe's one-third ownership of a New York bar, Bachelors III. I was commuting to Cal State Fullerton to finish my BA and working for Pomona Parks and Rec. Linda was employed by Pacific Bell telephone company in Ontario. And I had lost my student deferment and been reclassified 1-A, eligible for the draft.

"But you and I we've been through that
And this is not our fate
So let us not talk falsely now
The hour's getting late."