OFF THE BEATEN CARTPATH

I'M SURE AS HELL NOT ON IT.  And with each invitation to play I turn down, I become more painfully aware of the excruciating pang pang pang pang of withdrawal that tears at my psyche more violently than a four-putt.

Last week it was Nick inviting me to play Congressional. Last weekend I had to blow off a 36-a-day jaunt down to Raleigh with Randy and the boys. And I'm getting 16 emails an hour from that squeakiest of wheels Tracy who's doing his damnedest to cajole me into joining him and a dozen or two other lunatics for 3 days of golf, gambling and gars with comped hotel rooms and passes to The Big Smoke. What, no showgirls?

I'd be surrounded by fellow Golfoholics, but with one big difference - they'd be feeding their addiction while I'd be starving mine. Would I ride along and get vicarious pleasure, or hole up in my room with the lights off after losing my dry-fit shirt at hold 'em?

So I'm just a happy camper. Last weekend I stacked wood and have splinters and sciatica to show for it. Next weekend, perhaps I'll take up knitting. Because it is getting downright chilly around here. Hell, I could knit myself a fuzzy pink straitjacket. 

It's medication time Mr. Balata.