Hum Baby, Hum

Johann Sebastian Bach

So rock me mama like a wagon wheel

Rock me mama anyway you feel

Hey, mama rock me

Rock me mama like the wind and the rain

Rock me mama like a southbound train

Hey, mama rock me

                                                    -- Darius Rucker

Do you ever get a song in your head that keeps coming back? You find yourself humming the tune, or listening to the lyrics played over and over in your head.

They call it an "earworm" or "stuck song syndrome."

Sometimes I get it when I'm surfing. I'll start paddling out lying on my stomach on my surfboard and a recent tune I've heard is cued up on my inner radio. Perhaps it comes as a result of floating on water. Or maybe simply moving my body -- arms and legs -- gets the song going.

Dum, dee dum dum dum dum dee dum. Dum dee dum dum dum dee dum. Dummm deeeee dum dum.

Jack Lemon (middle character) won Oscar for Best Supporting Actor in Mr. Roberts

I can hear the late great actor Jack Lemon singing along as Ensign Pulver while stepping quickly across the ship deck in the classic 1955 movie, Mr. Roberts. I loved that film, directed by the legendary John Ford.

I watched that flick several times when I was a kid, both at the theater and on TV. Maybe that's where I learned to sing and hum to myself while moving. You could call it a habit.

Confidentially, it drives my wife cray-cray when I do it in our house.

I don't even know that I'm doing it, especially if I'm thinking about something else. It actually helps me to concentrate.

When I first noticed while surfing that I was playing the same song again and again in my head, I did worry that it might be a problem, that it might interfere with my perception of a wave or a seal or whatever. Then I decided to go with it, enjoy it.

Which is what I've done over the years. I never know what song will pop up, which is kind of cool, being surprised.

Now that we know about "twisties" and how they can interrupt athletic performance, perhaps we should consider introducing athletes to earworms to maintain their concentration.

"Find a song that you enjoy. Listen to it with rapt attention. When you're ready to begin your routine, take a deep breath and a long exhale while you allow your tune to permeate your consciousness."

It's like dancing. You move to the music. Maybe dancers have been hip to this little secret all along.

Yes, I'm going to try it with my golf swing. It's transferable to any sport or activity. Maybe I can get a patent on the concept, make a few bucks on the side.

Maybe everybody's already doing it and I just found out. That's why artists listen to Bach when they paint. When they sleep, Concerto for Two Violins, orchestrates through their subconscious, tripping the creative aspect of their frontal cortex, impressing new design concepts in their motor nerves.

When you watch a good maestro at work with a baton in hand, you know he's got a substantial earworm going upstairs.

Is it possible that I have stumbled upon something BIG, with a future on YouTube or perhaps a reality TV show? 

I looked up earworms and it advised to get rid of them, chew gum.

I say, don't chew gum, let it hum.

Caution: Expressing earworms outloud can cause severe damage to your relationships with others.

  

 

Twisted into Nots

PHOTO:Boston Globe

Over the past few months whenever I saw Simone Biles perform her incredible gymnastic routines -- especially where she twists and flips several times in mid air -- I wondered how does she do that? To me, it seemed incomprehensible.

Now I learn that I was correct: it is incomprehensible. One cannot possibly comprehend, or think about, these split-second moves while performing them. If you do, you become lost.

In gymnastics they call this mental tick, the "twisties."

When I first heard the term, I commented to my dog, Frida: "I can't even swing a golf club without getting the twisties."

Frida was nonplussed. The only thing on her mind was where are we going next, dad?

She does encounter anxieties but never in full stride, jumping into the car or through a hoop. She sometimes becomes nervous before the act but never during.

I, on the other hand (err, paw), seem to be more prone to twisties as I get older. I used to scramble up the ladder and onto the roof of my house to repair a shingle or clean a rain gutter: no more. Such activity now brings on a case of acrophobia and dizziness. It's mental. I doubt my coordination. I'm smarter than I used to be. 

Frida instinctively knows better than to try to walk on a roof.

In golf, a twistie is called a "yip," and it has led to the demise of many a golfer. And God knows I'm one.

It involves an element of doubt, or as Simone explained, "I felt lost."

Gymnasts practice their routines over and over and over to develop muscle memory so that thinking about what they're doing is removed from the equation. Yet any little thing can trip the mental switch. When you're spinning around in midair and the danger of falling on your head enters your mind -- look out!

The pressure becomes greatest when you're competing in front of the world and expectations are foremost.

Developing the impeccable muscle memory requires excellent coaching and physical training. I can only imagine the stress of having a bona fide pervert tinkering with your body while you're going through full-scale training. Which, of course, was part of Simone's, and other young female gymnasts', experience.

Being a Black woman in a predominantly white sport only added to the pressure.

A little twistie can come from a heaping helping of mental loading.

I salute Simone for standing up for herself. She has entered a higher level of athletic performance that will prove even greater beneficial effects for all.

PHOTO:KCS

In the meantime, I will drag myself back to the driving range resolved to overcome my own simple case of the twisties, to swing a golf club beyond the doubt of failure, with confidence and the feeling of pure joy. 

Just don't think about it. Right, Frida?

Eight Surfing Books

Top photo from late 1800s print showing Hawaiians riding boards on small waves, from Surfing, a History of the Ancient Hawaiian Sport.  In contrast, Gerry Lopez goes tubular at Moneytrees in G-Land circa 1980. Photo from his book Surf Is Where You Find It.

Summer is here but not many waves. It's time to re-wax your surfboard, repair your dings and take a book to the beach, or find a quiet spot beneath a tree. Going through my limited library of surfing books, I've enjoyed re-visiting various yarns about the ancient sport that has fascinated ocean lovers for centuries. Herewith, are eight books that I suggest are worth a read, or at least a look-see. You don't need to surf to enjoy a good story.

Mike Doyle rides a thick comber at Sunset Beach, 1966. At top with his Trestle Special, 1960, Santa Monica

1. Morning Glass, the Adventures of a Legendary Waterman by Mike Doyle

Full of life and total stoke, Doyle tells his story of learning to surf growing up in Southern California in the 1960s and then going to Hawaii to challenge the waves of the islands, the origin of surfing. No artifice here, Doyle opens his heart and it's full of colorful characters, the onset of commercializing surfing and the pure joy of the sport. Doyle represents the heart of the ancient sport of kings. Next to the great Hawaiian, Duke Kahanamoku, Doyle was its greatest ambassador. And this is his rip-roaring tale. He died of ALS in 2019 at age 78. We are so lucky that he wrote this book. Includes cool, historical photos. Mike Doyle deserves the number one spot.

Rell Sunn and Gerry Lopez win the female and male Ala Moana Junior Surf Championships, 1965

2. Surf is Anywhere You Find It by Gerry Lopez

Appropriately known as Mr. Pipeline in the 1970s, Gerry Lopez demonstrated the consummate art of surfing during his era: maintaining casual composure while blasting through the famous hollow barrels of the signature wave of the North Shore of Hawaii. A lifelong practitioner of yoga and son of a newspaper man, Gerry writes clearly about growing up in the islands and going to surf near his grandma's home on the far west shore of Kauai, among other adventures, with a variety of photos. If Mike Doyle represented the stoke of surfing, Gerry Lopez represents surfing's coolest customer.

3. Barbarian Days A Surfing Life by William Finnegan

Finnegan is a writer by trade and a surfer at his core. And we are fortunate for it. His graceful prose takes us on a journey chasing the ephemeral essence of waves, where they're found and who would be the first to ride them. Think Hemingway with a modern twist: a wave to machismo instead of a bull. Finnegan has written in The NewYorker about the Mexican cartels with the bravado of one who challenges the greatest forces of nature. This is the story of his passion which lies in the ocean. You don't need to surf to enjoy his journey.

4. Tapping the Source by Kem Nunn

Novelist Kem Nunn is a voice for surfing's underbelly, the James Ellroy of surf writers. His fictional tale goes to the dark side of the subculture to meet the seedy characters who make wave-riding their cultish religion. Of his three surf-themed novels (includes Dogs of Winter and Tijuana Straits) -- all of which fall into the category of surf noir --consider Tapping the Source his book of Revelation. The title alone evokes the diabolical core of surfing's genesis. If you want to ride that particular wave, Nunn spins a compelling yarn, and deserves an audience.

Miki Dora stylin' at Malibu back in the day

5. All for a Few Perfect Waves by David Rensin

Known as Da Cat for his smooth, athletic style, Miki Dora was a scammer, a renegade, a thief, an out-spoken racist and a talented rider of the longboard during the 60s. Author Rensin chases the infamous surfer during Dora's days on the lam, which makes for a fun, intriguing ride. Dora was the colorful bad boy of surfing and the first to express his disdain for the commercialism of the sport, while at the same time filling in as an extra during the filming of the most commercial surf flick of his day, Gidget. "The best long boarder I ever saw," according to the late Santa Cruz surf legend Johnny Rice, talking about Miki Dora the legend.

6. The Gentlemen's Hour by Don Winslow 

Novelist Don Winslow has built his reputation by writing fictional tomes about the Mexican drug cartels (The Border Trilogy) as well as exposing the illicit doings of the New York City Police Dept. (The Force). His fiction is authentic and gritty. Before he dove into deeper waters, Winslow wrote a series of crime novels based around the surf scene in San Diego, California. The Gentleman's Hour represents this period. His dialog laced with abundantly cool surf slang brings his wave-riding characters to life, coupled with his talent for good story telling: like a tasty burrito with extra salsa.

Pipeline and nearby breaks on Hawaii's north shore. Photo from Welcome to Hawaii...

7. Welcome to Hawaii, Now Go to HELL by Chas Smith

Chas Smith is a punk, and he's not afraid to prove it through his own self-absorbed prose and posturing. A writer for Surfing magazine, Smith gives an honest appraisal of what's going down on the North Shore of Oahu where all the surf heavies hang and ride ridiculously powerful waves. He dishes the lowdown on the sponsored houses where team riders stay within ocean-spray of said crunchers. His in-your-face style of reporting evokes memories of the late gonzo master Hunter S. Thompson. The book comes with choice colorful photographs of the place and characters. Steal it if you have to.

In 1868, according to legend, Holoua rode a tidal wave to shore on a plank he tore from his house. Painting by C.P. Cathcart, from the book Surfing, a History...

8. Surfing, a History of the Ancient Hawaiian Sport by Ben Finney and James D. Houston

A soft-cover, coffee-table book, Surfing, a History... travels back in time to surfing's origins in Polynesia where some historians speculate the possibility of human beings riding waves 2,000 years b.c. We have record of humankind surfing in the Pacific Ocean 1,000 years ago. This compendium of information published in 1966 is based on research, including from the archives of the Bishop Museum and the Hawaii Maritime Center in Honolulu. The book is full of wonderful historical photographs, engravings, prints and the extra bonus of excerpted writings of Mark Twain, Jack London and Herman Melville. Who knew these guys were writing about surfing?

Flat-Screening Golf

Collin Morikawa wins Claret Jug PHOTO:SI

                                   

I once told a friend, 

a fan of bicycle road racing, that as a spectator, I was not enamored of that sport. “I cannot get too enthusiastic about watching bicycles race down the street,” I offered in a kill-joy kind of way.

I should talk. I spent this weekend plopped in front of the flat screen watching golf.

This was not ordinary golf -- admittedly as exciting to watch as grass grow -- but the 149th edition of The Open from Sandwich, England. This was old-school stuff with a modern spin.

No manicured parkland trees and flowers, but weather-beaten links that are as elusive to look at as they are to play golf on; foolers of the eyes. A stray ball can be hidden for years.

"It takes a creative mind," said one of the broadcasters.

The ball can bounce in any direction and have you seen those bunkers? Originally naturally occurring hideouts for grazing sheep seeking shelter, bunkers of the old country are steep-sided pot holes that are as difficult to climb into as they are impossible to hit a ball out of.

Golfers of the links confront such obstacles, as well as the stability of their own minds. Not to mention the crazy, unpredictable weather with winds that can knock over an elephant. Notice the landscape is devoid of trees. Beware of thick grass and thorny gorse.

Jordan Spieth blasts out of bunker on 16th hole PHOTO:GW

The diabolical essence of the game -- it's not really a sport -- comes into focus when the world of television viewers are invited to England, Scotland or Ireland for the The Open (unofficially, The British Open). Ten golf courses make up the rotation, or rota, for The Open.

Watching golf inevitably gets me on my feet to practice my swing, typically by flailing my arms around the room pretending that I'm holding a golf club and making my dog nervous.

It is dangerous.

Most frightening, however, are the mental breakdowns of the players, some of whom lose all manner of confidence. Have you ever heard of David Duvall? Once the number one player in the world, Duvall was reduced to melted butter during a round of The Open, never again to pull his game back together.

The late British writer Alister Cooke called golf a penance of the Scots.

Saturday, at the Royal St. George Golf Links, as golfer Jordan Spieth was shooting birdies as if they were fish in a barrel making a run for the tournament lead, he suddenly bogeyed (1 over par) the 17th hole and then on the 18th missed a putt of one-and-a-half feet for par. That's 18-inches, the size of a large man's foot. The look on his face was devastating. He ran away from the green to avoid the press and find his guru.

The weather, which typically wreaks havoc at The Open, had nothing to do with Jordan's unfortunate flub. The conditions at Sandwich were splendid, high 60-degrees and into the 70s on Sunday.

"The warmest we've ever seen it," said a broadcaster.  Global warming? Another Scottish trick? 

TV viewers saw shots of rarely blue Sandwich Bay and the tiny, picturesque town of Sandwich, the white cliffs of Dover, and a long stretch of sandy beach next to the links.

"Look at the beach, honey!" I exclaimed to my wife, attempting to prove that there's more to watching golf than a little white ball.

"Yes, there's nobody on it," she replied, referring to the northerly temperatures.

"Everybody's at the golf tournament," I explained.

"Look, there's a golfer with a bun," I pointed out. She seems to like the hair-in-a-knot-on-top-of-the- head look. I can't do that. 

Today's golf pros are sporting beards and buns.

Meanwhile, a 24-year-old playing his first Open, was quietly rising up the leaderboard, Collin Morikawa. The same guy who won the PGA Tournament, another of the four US majors. I mentioned him in my blog of August 10, 2020, calling him golf's new hero.

Sure enough, Morikawa emerged from a close pack of golfers to take the lead over the final holes, with Jordan creeping up on him, both players making birdies. Collin held his composure and the lead, besting Jordan by two strokes (those two bogies?), having his name engraved on the coveted silver Claret Jug that goes to the winner.

He played his final 31 holes bogey free, an incredible feat.

"We'll be seeing more of him," said a broadcaster. "He's only played in eight majors and he's won two of them. That's one-quarter of those played. He shows the maturity of someone much older."

Collin's acceptance speech proved this point. He thanked everyone including the spectators, announced it was his caddie's birthday, had the gallery singing "happy birthday." Articulate, no fumbling or bumbling, as smooth as his game.

Next year's Open, the 150th anniversary, will be played at St. Andrews Old Course, the cradle of golf, in St. Andrews, Scotland. Collin will be there. I trust I'll be in front of a flat-screen to watch the drama, devastation, hair-dos and don'ts.

Political Silence

PHOTO: BBS

Things were running fairly smoothly over the past six months, mainly because we didn't hear a peep from the former guy in the White House. It's astonishing how much hot-air time he received during his four years in office. 

It seemed like every day an environmental protection law was overturned, a cabinet member was fired, a disloyal politico was threatened, an Iranian leader was murdered by our country, a reputable Middle Eastern journalist was chopped up and stuffed in a bag by thugs of an authoritarian sheik and friend of the former administration. The horror of it just went on and on.

And now he's back. It's the same sad, miserable, degrading stuff. This is not to say that his sycophants haven't been doing their part, except for poor Mike Pence, who did everything he could for the dark one, except overturn the election. That was his undoing and almost got him hanged by the cult insurrectionists.

This week the big mouth announced that he was suing Facebook and Twitter for censoring him. He is claiming his first amendment rights and those of all Americans. This is a joke, folks. He's campaigning again, and raising money for his very deep legal fees. He expects his followers to pay his bills. It's the same old con.

Today the Wall Street Journal gave him prime real estate on their opinion page, where he pleaded his case. Obviously, the column was not written by the liar. He could no more string comprehensible paragraphs together than a pre-schooler. His lawyers are doing his dirty work while he watches Fox News.

The Wall Street Journal is a business enterprise and has the right to allow the insurrection-inspiring piece of dung to spout his lies and grievances. It's the newspaper's decision, same as FB or Twitter.They could say no, or give him a small space on the bottom of the page. But, hey, they want to sell papers and make money. 

I like to read comments by readers about opinions printed in the WSJ. Overwhelmingly, comments on today's column by dirty don are against him. He's not so popular as he thinks, at least among people who read. And WSJ readers are predominantly conservative.

Cult members prefer Fox and social media, which is another reason why the bully is filing a first-amendment law suit. It has nothing to do with free speech. Taking away his Twitter has been like cutting off his tongue, which is a good thing, constitutionally. It keeps him from inciting another riot.

A friend of my wife who lives in southwestern Missouri said she saw a sign the other day that read: "T.... in 2024." She did a double take. "I couldn't believe it," she said. Then she remembered that her location thick in America's Bible Belt is experiencing a surge of delta variant Covid cases because most folks are not vaccinated and have not been wearing masks. They don't believe in reality.

I've had two Moderna vaccinations. I'm praying for another quiet six months and still wearing a mask when I go shopping.

Eat Your Art Out, Jeff

Marcel Duchamp's Touch Up

The story is probably super dated and for all I know Jeff Bezos could be at New York City's Bellevue Hospital having his stomach pumped.

I take that back. I would likely have already watched him eat the Mona Lisa. Or seen the highlights online; clicked the little arrow several times over to ensure that I had satisfactorily digested the artistic je ne sais quoi.

I can see him chomping into those enigmatically ironic lips that for centuries have dazzled the cognoscenti.

I can see him puckering his lips, lifting the little finger of his left hand, and forthwith, pronouncing: "That's good!"

That's worth $60 bills, easy. As in $60 billion, the estimated value of DaVinci's 16th Century masterpiece. Bezos's himself is valued at $200 billion, so he could easily afford to purchase the fair lady.

The absurdity of eating an original work of art, especially the most prized piece on the planet, would certainly qualify as art in itself, especially if masticated by the most ridiculously rich man on earth.

"To imagine a new art, one must break the ancient art," posited French author Marcel Schwob more than 100 years ago. Jeff could do this.

The truth is, of course, Bezos has not reached into his deep pocket to make art history. However, a petition still circulates urging Mr. Amazon to do so. As of this morning, nearly 16,000 signatures have been gathered online. Change.org petition 

The petition was instigated as a joke by Kane Powell, a resident of Stevensville, Md. "No one has eaten the Mona Lisa and we think Jeff Bezos should take a stand and make this happen," the petition states. It would be high "entertainment."

The esteemed piece of Renaissance art is part of France's national collection housed at the Louvre in Paris. As such, experts claim, it is a national treasure and possesses "moral rights" -- droits maraux -- that are supposed to protect art from being denigrated, if not eaten.

But here's the catch: That statute is only about 100 years old and the Mona Lisa, painted by Leonardo DaVinci, was completed in 1506. You can't simply slap a new rule on a piece of art like that. In 1919, Marcel Duchamp purchased a print of the Mona Lisa and with a few satirical brush strokes added a mustache and goatee.  He even made note of the lady's attractive rear end: LHOOQ, pronounce each letter with a French accent.

But we're talking about the original ML.

What to do?

Bezos the billionaire will step down this week from his position as CEO of Amazon. Perhaps, and I only speculate, he might want to go into the history books as more than a business wunderkind/slave driver. He may have a latent, untapped desire to be remembered as a gallant, flamboyant artiste.

Mr. Bezos could theoretically afford it, French tech executive Stephane Distinguin reportedly told the New York Times. "Eating it might prove more difficult but it would really depend on Mr. Bezo's stomach."

And we could watch on YouTube.