(I know, you’re already thinking I’ve lost my marbles…just wait.) 

My newfound interest in the art is shared by many others…if you’ve viewed any of these TV shows, you know that tattoo conventions showcasing many well-known tattoo artists are attended by thousands, and their popularity continues to grow. If you want to get a tattoo by some of the major artists, you had better be prepared to book an appointment, through the artist’s website, at least one year in advance!

What really hooked me was when I saw the cubist artwork by one of the world’s foremost tattooists, a gentleman simply known as “Bugs.” Before we delve into his work, let me provide you a bit of background: Cubism is an art movement that was started in the early 1900’s and is perhaps best-known through the works of Pablo Picasso and Georges Braque. The style is one where various objects are broken up and reassembled in some abstract manner, thereby allowing the artist to present multiple viewpoints of the painting’s subject matter, offering you the viewer greater context in however you choose to interpret the piece. Woman with a Guitar by Braque, shown here, is one  of the better known examples of cubist art.

OK, back to Bugs. A native Frenchman, who has been practicing his art for some twenty-five years, Bugs is regarded as a “master” in the tattoo world, and has carved an equally creative niche on canvas as well as skin. He actually began as an art student before turning tattoo artist, and gained fame through his illustrative cubist-style tattoos while practicing in London. While continuing to travel the world, he is currently based in the Los Angeles area at The Tattoo Lounge. His work, in my opinion, is absolutely breathtaking both in scope and design. Here’s a link to his personal website so you can independently judge his art.

By now you’re probably asking why I haven’t followed-through with my desire to get a tattoo. Surprisingly it has nothing to do with the preconceived notion held by many that tattoos are only for the criminal element, athletes and flaky Hollywood celebrities…nothing could be further from the truth. No, my two obstacles are based upon two of society’s bedrocks:  religion and marriage.

I’m Jewish and my faith has long held that because the body is a gift from the Lord, and therefore sacred, making any markings is a distinct sign of disrespect. Now while I’m not very religious, I do try to adhere to some of my religion’s basic tenets. I have to admit, however, that my new-found level of respect for the art of tattooing is gradually allowing me to “deal” with this problematic doctrine.

It’s the second obstacle that poses the greater long-term difficulty; namely that I dearly love my wife and wish to remain married! I have been told in no uncertain terms “get a tattoo and you’re out the door!” One tattoo would immediately turn me into Rodney Dangerfield…hey, I tell ya’ I get no respect! Sheesh, what’s a guy have to do? In my case, the answer is to temporarily shelve the idea of getting a tattoo so I can still gain entrance to my own household. Best not to disturb the Gods and my wife (not necessarily in that order), lest I find myself (you got it)…done and done.

-Neal

As most 50 plus males know by now, sometimes sports serve as a metaphor for life. My hometown Philadelphia Flyers are currently proving this point. They didn’t qualify for the hockey playoffs until their last game of the regular season and have since shocked everyone by advancing through the first three rounds (two of which were against higher seeded teams), subsequently reaching the Finals against (once again) a must higher seeded team, the Chicago Blackhawks.

How  they have accomplished this feat was expounded upon by Phil Sheridan, a sports columnist for  The Philadelphia Inquirer. Simply put, the Flyers “are a relentless band of warriors.” This has entailed an increasing level of grit and determination while the playoffs have progressed; as their opponents have gotten better and stronger, so have the Flyers. Much credit has to be given to Flyers coach Peter Laviolette and his staff. They are, as Mr. Sheridan writes, hitting on all cylinders and pushing every button as motivators and leaders.

Lesson learned here: you have to be more and more prepared to meet rising challenges.

So why does an obviously intelligent, successful member of our generation seem to have totally dropped the ball? I’m referring to Tony Hayward, Chief Executive Officer of BP Plc, who recently turned fifty-three. Mr. Hayward (and we can’t excuse his support staff) has seemingly made one gaffe after another. His intonation of “wanting to get my life back” may have been the apogee of pathetic  remarks by a CEO, particularly in light of the eleven lives lost on the oil rig, not to mention the toll this oil spill is taking on local residents and wildlife.

The flak that BP has taken in response to the spill is justified, and the behavior of their leader has heightened the level of vitriol. It’s only now, after weeks of failures and poor corporate behavior that BP and Mr. Hayward are beginning to “hit on all cylinders.” Unfortunately, it’s too little/too late.

Mr. Hayward’s utter lack of exuding competence and leadership will only add to the incalculable cost that BP will have to pay over time. He has already confessed that “they did not have all the tools you would want in your toolkit.” In other words, they weren’t prepared to deal with a deepwater oil leak. Now I fully understand that BP’s objective, as with any corporate entity, is to maximize productivity and accompanying profits. But, as Dick Polman, a highly regarded political columnist notes, they should have first done due diligence on all precautions that would have allowed BP to “act as a steward for the public interest in a fragile ecosystem.”

Proper preparation encompasses three ingredients: advance planning, the wherewithal to adapt, and the ability to adjust. Mr. Hayward and his organization have miserably failed on all three counts. Unlike my Philadelphia Flyers, they simply don’t have the look of a champion…

-Neal

Here’s the rub…even more astonishing is how many of my own family, friends and acquaintances have recently passed away. A cousin, childhood friend, along with high school and college classmates, all in their fifties, have sadly departed at what we 50 plus males regard as a vital phase of our lives. I’ve never been a devotee of the obituaries in my local paper, but the ever expanding lists of the deceased noted in my high school class web site and quarterly college alumni publications produce agonizing projectiles to the gut that eliminate any attempt on my part to have these notices remain inconspicuous.

So here’s a fundamental life question raised by this news…do I continue to follow my heretofore unwritten edict of always “planning for tomorrow” or should I finally learn to “live for today?” I’m fully aware it’s possible to straddle both philosophies, but the question of applying equal weight to each choice versus favoring one over the other must be addressed.

There isn’t any right or wrong answer; it’s strictly a personal matter based on your particular circumstances. I’ve always been a believer that “today will take care of itself,” therefore focus on planning for a better tomorrow. At work, I’ve always had the habit of going a bit overboard in trying to plan for every possible ill-advised scenario that could arise before a new project began, not only to have pre-arranged solutions at-hand, but more importantly to help prevent the actual occurrence of  the problem. In my personal life, I’ve always been a saver rather than a spender…who knows what tomorrow will bring, so best to be prepared. Now, having the perspective of too many untimely deaths within my social sphere, my once solid foundation built by sheer determination to seek a better tomorrow is beginning to show cracks.

One of my closest friends has always been a “live for today” practitioner and I have repeatedly berated him over the years for feeling this way.  Well folks, not only do I no longer question him, I find myself appreciating my friend for effectuating this lifestyle much earlier than I ever dreamt to follow this path. If you’re sensing a gradual sway on my part to joining the “live for today” club, you’re right…instead of selfishly theorizing there will be many more “tomorrows,” I  increasingly focus on fully actualizing each “today.”

Like many of my brethren when I was in my twenties, thirties and forties, I always thought of myself as invincible; this is no longer the case. Our health, much like good fortune, can no longer  be taken for granted. We’ve all heard “you could be hit by a bus tomorrow” and “the world does not owe you a living.” I always used to casually cast aside such broadsides, but now, I’m listening…

-Neal

Or so I thought…

I was notified in February that I was liable for possible jury service in Federal Court beginning in late March. When the appropriate time arrived, I made my required phone call to see if my assigned number was selected to attend the next day’s jury pool; it was, and so began my brief, but startling journey into “another world.”

I was selected for the second voir dire (French for “to see/to hear”) call of the day, a rather large one where fifty-five of us were chosen. For those of you not familiar with the concept of voir dire, you are escorted to a courtroom and given a very brief overview of the case by the presiding judge. The judge then proceeds to weed out possible jurors from the group through an exhaustive series of questions that can expose bias towards the prosecution or defense, along with a host of other reasons why you should not be selected for the jury. Once the judge is finished, the respective lawyers get their chance for questioning the assembled pool, with the intent of selecting those people they feel are most apt to side with them once the trial begins. After the lawyers exercise their allotment of preemptive strikes, a jury consisting of twelve members and two alternates is finally selected to hear the case.

Guess who was the last person picked, as Alternate #2? 

The case was drug-related (cocaine powder and crack cocaine to be precise). The two male defendants were each charged with three counts involving possession, intent to distribute, and possession of firearms. Each defendant was in his early twenties, but could have easily passed for eighteen—baby-faced complexions, fresh haircuts, shirts and ties—every attempt having obviously been made by their lawyers to dissuade us from thinking they were street-wise and hardened individuals. After being given precise instruction on how to conduct ourselves from the judge, the prosecution (representing the government) began their opening argument.

To say it was compelling is an understatement; we learned there were actually five arrests made but the other three parties had pled guilty and were going to testify for the prosecution against the two defendants, thereby hoping to lessen their own jail time. My fellow jurors and I were drawn into what can only be described as the seedy, sordid underworld of a drug-infested existence. Remember, no opinions were to be formed about guilt or innocence until the trial ended (the judged had told us to expect six days of trial time before deliberations could begin), but I soon realized TV shows and movies ain’t nothing like this folks! After hearing opening statements from the defense, who agreed the prosecution had followed correct procedural manners in forming their case, but were arguing against the defendants’ level of involvement, the first witness was called. He was the lead detective in the case and was put through three rigorous hours of examination and cross-examination by the lawyers. The other detective and fellow officers in the case followed him onto the stand, albeit for much shorter questioning.

The second day was the real show; the first of the other three arrested parties made his appearance, in green jail fatigues with a sheriff escort always remaining by his side, as a witness for the prosecution. I won’t delve into every detail, but I learned more about cocaine, both in its raw form and in its “cooked” form as crack than I ever cared to; as well as how a sweeping cocaine business operated on a daily basis. I would be remiss if I didn’t mention the unnerving feeling of having the three firearms gathered as evidence a mere ten feet in front of the jury box—a .45 caliber Taurus Millennium pistol, a .44 magnum, and a 12-gauge shotgun, all of which had been kept constantly “hot” (i.e. ready to be fired) and within arm’s reach in one of the defendant’s apartments. The only “amusing” facet of the proceedings was that this witness, both a customer and accomplice of the defendants, was 45 years old and was thus called “Old-Head” by all of his associates.

When the fourteen members of the jury returned from lunch recess that day, we were told there would be a delay in allowing us back into the courtroom, as there were many details being sorted-out by the lawyers and judge. Two more hours passed and we all began thinking this “delay” was plea-bargaining by the defendants, who, in my opinion, had been buried earlier by the testimony of Old-Head. It was obvious the police and prosecutors had done a credible, thorough job and the defense was facing an uphill battle. Once we finally were able to re-enter the court, the defendants were no longer present—the judge told us they had decided to plead guilty and their pleas was accepted based on the overwhelming evidence presented to that point. We were graciously thanked by the judge, who told us that while we were no longer needed to decide the case, our mere presence helped produce the outcome and we had performed our civic duty at the highest level.

The train ride home was a blur.  First, I could not stop thinking about the two young lives gone to waste and the effect on their families. Second was much more personal. My father passed away over forty years ago; I was only fifteen at the time and was suddenly thrust into the role of “man-of-the house” (my brother was only eleven). I had to grow-up in a hurry, becoming mature and savvy for my age.  Ever since that phase of my life, I’ve always regarded myself as wise and street-smart. This trial, even in it’s shortened state, made me realize, however, that in certain social circles I’m literally a “babe in the woods.” Here I am in my fifties, seemingly immune to anything else life can throw my way, but in the world inhabited by the defendants, I’d be nothing more than “fresh meat.” Scary, scary thought. Best to start walking around with a fresh set of eyes starting right now…

-Neal

As far as the swings  in Nita’s body temperature (which generally occur at bedtime), well, let me describe this from the male viewpoint by quoting one of my best friends: “Fan on/fan off; windows up/windows down; blanket on/ blanket off.”  Hey, I’m not complaining; these temperature fluctuations can be hellish to constantly bear. Nita and I have come to naming these sudden strikes as “surges,” and if a surge has her on the ascending phase of the peak (guys, that means the mercury is rising), I have quickly learned this isn’t the time to get cuddly; better to remember the old driving axiom of remaining one car-length behind for every ten miles/hour of speed.

(Talk about surges, wait until she reads these introductory paragraphs!)

This got me to thinking about changes men experience beginning in their fifties, kind of a “male  menopause” if you’ll allow me some wiggle room here. It’s every bit as personal a journey on our side of the ledger, and as I’ve taken some “not insignificant” liberties with my wife’s travails, it’s only right to divulge my mea culpa…

1. My nose hairs and ear hairs need to be cut more often than the scarcity remaining on my head.

2. I remember  celebrating with my friends at their kids’ communions and bar/bat mitzvahs…they’ve grown too quickly and are getting married now.

3. Receiving a low PSA score from my annual testing is cause for elation.

4. A Frank Sinatra or Dean Martin song plays on the radio, and I no longer change the station.

5. I think of the joy felt when I became an uncle for the first time; now my nieces are driving.

6. I still possess some level of athletic ability, but I’ve come to grips with the fact I’ll never be on a box of Wheaties.

7. With all of the wondrous fiber benefits, I can’t understand why I waited until turning 56 to begin taking Metamucil…gee, maybe it’s not just for “old” people.

Guys, for us “the change” is both a ride taken in a supportive role with our wives, as well as a solo  journey. Don’t fight the inevitable—it’s best to adhere to the great Gospel-oriented song by Curtis Mayfield and The Impressions, “People Get Ready.” It may have been written by Mayfield  to offer a spiritual message of redemption and forgiveness, but the opening lines echo my thoughts:

“People get ready, there’s a train a-comin’                                                                                  You don’t need no baggage, you just get on board”

(Note: Nita still hasn’t come home and read the first two paragraphs—I remain among the living.)

-Neal  

Colonoscopies, based on personal experience, are unduly dreaded; neither the prep work nor the procedure warrant the fingernail-chewing, raw-nerve reaction experienced by so many people when the subject arises. I’m not suggesting the prep and procedure is particularly pleasant; just rest assured your doctor will sedate you so you’re in la-la land while an invasion into the deep unknown takes place…it’s a journey where the good doctor so boldly goes forth where no man has gone before, well guy, it would make Capt. Kirk proud.

Let’s educate you on the basics: a colonoscopy is a procedure that allows doctors, typically either a gastroenterologist or a proctologist, to look inside the colon and rectum (note: the colon and rectum are the two main parts of the large intestine). The purpose is to detect early signs of colorectal cancer and diagnose any bleeding, changes in bowel habits, or pain emanating from your anus or abdomen.

You’ll get instructions from the nurse during the initial exam for performing a bowel prep prior to the procedure; this is to make sure that all solids are emptied from your gastrointestinal tract so the doctor has a clear view during this Invasion of Normandy. The prep will have you following a clear liquid diet for 1-2 days before the colonoscopy—fluids such as plain tea, bullion and certain sports drinks are allowed. The afternoon/evening before the procedure is when you’ll take a prescribed laxative (ex. MiraLAX) mixed with a 64 ounce bottle of clear fluid (such as certain types of Gatorade). You’ll generally be asked to drink 8 ounces approximately every half hour until the bottle is finished. Here’s a small hint—this is the portion of the prep that will drain you of any waste in your body, so it’s best to be home at this time. By the third intake of fluid, the gurgling in your stomach is about to erupt in a fashion that would make Old Faithful’s geyser pale in comparison! Wind sprints to the bathroom can become the norm. If people at work see you during this time, they’ll think you’re doing interval training for the 100m dash…

OK, the big day has arrived—here’s the good news—the worst is actually over. Once on the table (colonoscopies are many times an in-office procedure), you’ll lay on your left side and either be given a light sedative or you’ll be completely knocked-out (definitely my choice). The doctor will then insert a flexible lighted tube called a scope into your anus and slowly guide it into the colon and rectum. There’s a small camera at the end of the scope that transmits video images to a computer screen, enabling the doctor to view the intestinal lining and check for polyps, diverticulitis and other possible complications with your plumbing system. If necessary, a tissue biopsy can be taken and will be sent to the lab.

Recovery takes 30-60 minutes while the sedation wears off; once awake you may have some minor cramping or feel slightly bloated, but this quickly passes. Make sure you have a family member or friend along since you won’t be allowed to drive yourself home.

The general consensus among doctors is to undergo a colonoscopy once every 5-7 years after you’ve hit the big 5-0. Just like learning to ride a bike, it’s much easier the second time around. There’s no sense in fretting over such an important preventative health procedure. Like anything else in life, there’s always a humorous side…I was recently sent an email detailing some actual commentary to physicians from male patients at their colonoscopies that I’ll gladly share with you:

“Can you hear me NOW?”

“Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Are we there yet?”

“You put your left hand in, you take your left hand out…”

“Any sign of the trapped miners, Chief?”

“You used to be an executive at Enron, didn’t you?”

“You know, in certain states, we’re now legally married.”

Finally, my personal favorite…”Could you write a note for my wife saying my head is not up there?”

-Neal

As a member of the boomer-generation, I like to think experience and wisdom ensure the capacity to adequately answer  anything asked by my wife. Sometimes, however, these surprise questions from Nita have a hidden aspect to them…they’re (unwittingly?) dropped as potential landmines if I don’t watch my step in how I address them.

I’m not alone in tip-toeing around these not-so-innocuous lobs from my wife; I’m willing to bet almost 100% of us 50 plus males continually find ourselves attempting to politely dodge any kind of consternation when these types of questions are asked by our wives. These instances call for aplomb and quick analysis, not paralysis.

There are obvious examples of these bombshell questions from our wives; one of the most common being “Honey, is it OK if my mother comes live with us?” This one is so potentially “deadly” that it warrants a blog post unto itself, so let’s temporarily shun it aside (whew!). We’ll stick with two that are a bit less volatile to deal with.

First up is the inevitable worry expressed by so many wives when modeling a newly purchased outfit for their husbands: “Does this make me look fat?” When I first got married and Nita asked me this, I immediately got that “deer-in-a-headlight” look in my eyes and stuttered “Ugh, ugh no honey.” Needless to say, that reply provided zero support and I received a raised eyebrow look from Nita that was countering with “What exactly are you saying dear?”  I had inadvertently stepped on the landmine and immediately knew that having sex that night was totally out of any realm of possibility.

Nowadays, I calmly, coolly answer “it fits you just right, like it was made for you.” Momma didn’t raise no dummy guys, I’ve learned my lesson! This is not to say I don’t try to be honest with Nita; if I don’t find an outfit particularly appealing, it’s now broached with an “I like it but don’t love it” comment. Look-up the word “delicacy” guys, you’ll find it under “D” in the dictionary…

The second example of questions from Nita that signal “danger Will Robinson!, danger Will Robinson!” arises when she asks me anything that starts with “Honey, I was thinking, how would you feel if (fill-in the blank)?” I immediately know that any answer to these questions is going to cost serious money. More often than not, these questions are about home remodeling, such as “how would you feel if we knock-out this wall and replace it with custom built-in storage, a flat-screen TV, new lighting, and…(keep adding-up the $$$). In this case, wisdom has taught me to reply with “Hon, I never would have thought of that; it’s a great idea and we’ll definitely have to put it on our list once we can afford to do it.” At this point guys, I trust you still have that dictionary opened to “D.”

I have to give kudos to my wife; she constantly amazes me with her imaginative thinking, even with the inevitable possibility of brandishing an axe to our bank account. As for that “left-handed” compliment I mentioned at the beginning of this post…it’s short, sweet, and simple: “Honey, it never gets boring!”

-Neal

One article, written by Bob Martin, a former Inquirer writer and editor, is entitled “We could go  a long way toward being brotherly,” with the subtitle “Our orneriness drags us down.” It details Mr. Martin’s description of an older work acquaintance nicknamed “Slim” who has since passed on; a gentleman known for his blue-collar survival skills and fierce “addytood,” who had  his way of doing the job and damn anyone who sought to introduce changes mentality. A colleague of Mr. Martin’s noted at Slim’s viewing that he looked more at peace than anytime he was alive. It made Mr. Martin wonder “if this hard edge that characterizes so much of our region serves any useful purpose or does it simply drag us down?”

The second article, by Jennifer Lin, an Inquirer staff writer, is entitled “Flap over Specter’s ‘act like a lady’ comment spreads.”  Senator Arlen Specter (D., Pa.) recently participated in a radio talk show with Rep. Michele Bachmann (R., Minn.) and the discussion had turned to the health-care bill. Specter noted that Rep. Bachmann had said she voted for prosperity, and countered that prosperity wasn’t a bill. Bachmann, briefly talking over him, stated “Well, why don’t we make it a bill?” Specter immediately responded in a cantankerous manner, retorting “don’t interrupt me. I didn’t interrupt you. Act like a lady.”  A couple of additional barbs flew by, but you get the idea. Rep. Bachmann was taken aback by the the Senator’s arrogance and felt like he was essentially telling her to “just sit back and keep quiet.” National media outlets have since picked-up the story, calling Specter’s remarks “patronizing, demeaning and disrespectful.”

All of this begs the question of why civility isn’t exercised more often than hot-tempered, intractactable behavior in our normal discourse with one another?  I used to encounter this stark difference in my former job. I always enjoyed the easy-going, extremely polite cadence when speaking with clients located in the Southern U.S. versus what I encountered with some clients in the Northeastern part of the country. Mr. Martin’s article referenced similar instances of this type of pleasant demeanor experienced during a recent trip in Florida.

I’m not being naive…none of us have the capacity to always be “Mr. Happy.”  I’m merely suggesting, particularly as we 50 plus males age, it’s not a given that we naturally fall into becoming irascible old men with a “my way or the highway” mentality. Senator Specter could have courteously asked Rep. Bachmann to please allow him to finish before rebutting his comments. Thoughtfulness generally trumps sarcasm. This applies to many types of instances we confront in a typical day. I’m still in a learning stage, having recently been chastised by a couple of friends for my penchant of quickly saying “hello” when they phone and almost immediately turning the call over to my wife.

Guys, Mr. Martin is right…most times, exhibiting a hard edge can and should be replaced with genial behavior and respectfulness.

-Neal

President Obama, to his credit, merely shrugged his shoulders and stated that comfort rules fashion in his jean selection. I’m about to buy two new pairs of everyday jeans to replace the two pairs that have served me so well the past couple of years…that’s everyday jeans as in my “non-work uniform/working around the house” jeans, not dress jeans which I typically save for casual evening-out wear on the weekends. This upcoming trip to the store is what has me thinking about the President’s recent dilemma.

For years, my everyday jeans have been Levi’s 550’s–basic sit-at-the-waist/relaxed-fit in the seat and thigh/tapers below the knee jeans. I buy them because:

a. they’re comfortable

b. they’re comfortable

c. they’re comfortable and I’ve always thought they fit me OK

d. they’re comfortable and reasonably-priced and I can readily purchase them on sale at various department stores

e. I’m not a hip-hop kind of guy; I don’t wear my jeans around my knees

Upon hearing that I was ready to replace my old everyday jeans (I donate the used jeans to Purple Heart), my wife immediately lectured (chided?) me because “I have no ass,” and she’s never liked the 550’s. Mind you, this is not just a newsflash for me; I’m gleaning this information for the first time in almost twenty-two years of marriage!

If you’ve shopped for jeans lately, you’ve found a dizzying array of choices: straight-fit, relaxed-fit, loose-fit in ten different finishes…each with an accompanying model number. Quite frankly, given we just want to purchase knocking-around jeans, it’s waaay (sic) too much for us 50 plus males to absorb. I’m with the President; if they’re comfortable and look OK, along with knowing they’re going to get “beat-up’ over time doing man-stuff around the home…boom!…that’s what I’m buying. Sorry honey, the flat-ass look is still in.

_Neal

Flashing forward to today finds my clubs gathering dust in the closet, not having played one round in the last few years. I’ve only been to the local driving range one time in recent memory. There’s no rhyme or reason why this has happened. My wife and I still vow to play the game some day (note: this is the only sport my wife will partake with me); the thought of all those lessons (and money) going for naught doesn’t sit well with us. More importantly, we simply had a good time during our brief affair with the game.

  In the course of some of my recent leisurely reading, I’ve come across a new set of “rules” for golf that I think will dramatically increase my resolve to stick with it the next time I pick-up my clubs; in fact, I strongly believe all 50 plus males who have a passion for the game may find  an uptick in their level of enjoyment should they decide to play by these new “rules,” so graciously proposed by Mr. Donald A. Metz of Devon, Pa.

Here are a few of his more important changes I can live with:

1. On beginning play, as many balls as may be required to obtain a satisfactory result may be played from the first tee. Everyone recognizes a good player needs to “loosen up” but does not have time for the practice tee.

2. A ball sliced or hooked into the rough shall be lifted and placed in the fairway at a point equal to the distance it carried or rolled in the rough. Such veering right or left frequently results from friction between the face of the club and the cover of the ball, and the player should not be penalized for erratic behavior of the ball resulting from such uncontrollable mechanical phenomena.

3. A ball hitting a tree shall be deemed not to have hit the tree. Hitting a tree is simply bad luck and has no place in a scientific game. The player should estimate the distance the ball would have traveled if it had not hit the tree, and play the ball from there, preferably from atop a nice tuft of grass.

4. There is no such thing as a lost ball. The missing ball is on or near the course somewhere and eventually will be found and pocketed by someone else. It thus becomes a stolen ball, and the player should not compound the felony by charging himself with a penalty stroke.

5. If a putt passes over the hole without dropping, it is deemed to have dropped. The law of gravity holds that any object attempting to maintain a position in the atmosphere without something to support it must drop.

6. A putt that stops close enough to the cup to inspire such comments as “you could blow it in” may be blown in. This rule does not apply if the ball is more than three inches from the hole, because no one wants to make a travesty of the game.

I know what you’re saying, “Bobby Jones must be rolling over in his grave,” but just think how much more pleasurable the 19th hole would be for everyone…

-Neal