Can you beat the blues with a fairway wood?

I went to a financial planner Saturday for an initial meeting, because like a potential AA member, first you must admit you have a problem.

Mine is not your typical American run up as much debt as you can before you die, but that I am abel to save money but haven’t done a damn thing to invest it. It just sits in a bank account, doing nothing, much like me on a Wednesday night.

The guy I met with looked about 15 and had a degree in economics, which made me feel old and dumb.

From there is was over to Duke’s Hot Dogs in Bridgeview, where a writer pal o’ mine John McNally had a book signing before he headed back to his teaching gig at Wake Forest. He grew up in the area and uses Duke’s as a setting in some of his stories.

There was a writer there, older than me, who recently lost his job as the Chicago Reader. Ouch. This must be how a used minivan must feel, I thought., because us writers are in about as much demand.

It’s been one of those cycles though, where I sort of feel like Tony Soprano, but without the fringe benefits of being in the mafia. Which is to say, I’m feeling pretty mortal right now, just like Tony is on the show.

It’s not just stuff in my life, like car shopping, and looking for a better job and trying to put my money to use so I don’t have to work at Wal-Mart when I am 70, and a bad salary and a lackluster love life and another holiday (Mother's Day) where it is akward being single (and yes, I did call my mom who lives on the West Coast). Christ, am I a whiner.

I mean I have one friend who just had tumors removed, another who just lost his job, another who just learned he has heart trouble, an uncle who just had triple by-pass surgery, an aunt on a heart transplant list, another aunt who just lost a relative, a dad who had surgery about six weeks ago, and others with other existential issues.

Hey, I did go to a party at night at a bar - a friend of a friend’s bon voyage as she is leaving for France in a few weeks for a couple years for work. I even posed in some silly Moulin Rouge-style Can-Can thing where you put your head in the painting. I hadn’t cross dressed in a long time, so it was uncomfortable yet sort of sexy.

Which is to say, sometimes you just have to do something out of character, to be the idiot in the hopes it will get you out of your bad karma self.

So I am going on a working vacation this week which will include golfing.

I do golf better than I ski, which is to say I don't fall on my ass as much. Actually, I can get some nice hits, then totally whiff, then whiff, then a few shots later hit a nice one. It wouldn’t be so frustrating if I sucked with each stroke (which sounds naughtier than intended).

Which reminds me. Now is the time you can make your own comments about any or all of the following:

My hook and slice; how I grip a shaft; how hard it is for me to get it in the hole, or find the hole, for that matter; washing my balls; losing my balls in the rough; my fairway wood; how hard I hit with my wood; my light touch with my putter. You know, the usual dumb ass golf jokes. They all apply, like I'm Dorf, crossed with Beavis and Butt-head.

The nice thing about a golf trip, though, is it is time outside, sometimes with a cold beverage, and usually in a bucolic setting. You can still enjoy the scenery even if you can’t really play, and I will be in one of the prettier parts of Michigan.

And in case you were wondering, no I won’t be wearing a kilt.

Actually, that gives me an idea for those of you who are afraid of public thinking, or looking for a way to liven up a dull party. The old school wisdom is to picture you audience naked, which seems even scarier and sure to make you stammer - or shudder.

Nah, picture your crowd or your pals in golf shorts or those bad 70s lime green golf pants. Decide who in the room would look best in knickers and one of those caps, you or me?

Personally, I'd pay good money to see some of you you in plaid shorts, with a Polo shirt, vest, cap and some saddle shoe style golf shoes. Some of you dress that way, anyway, with your nostalgia for the 80s and Michael J Fox and Alex P. Keaton.

But I cannot criticize. I used to be preppy too. But that’s a story for another time.