O.M.G.
The week was sated with a most desperate search for mass diversion since America was divided over our respect for Dr. Anthony Fauci at the onset of the coronavirus pandemic. We saw, for instance, the return of the face mask to those whose breathing was challenged by Canada’s forest fire smoke drifting into the eastern United States. A hundred million were affected, while 230 million were left undisturbed that our neighbor to the north had watched its old-growth forests turn into a tundra.
Then, of course, was the whole Trump thing with Jack Smith delivering a 37-count indictment that leveled charges of espionage, collusion, grand theft auto and shoplifting. He’s promised to surrender to authorities on Tuesday, when two-thirds of the country will hope to witness the first presidential perp walk in history. It won’t happen…the perp walk, that is.
Russia is continuing its invasion of Ukraine. Billionaires are fighting for outer-space dominance. None have yet to come close to matching Alan Shepard’s piloting his Freedom 7 Mercury capsule in a 1961 suborbital, 15-minute flight.
There were other prominent stories: Pat Robertson died, as did James G. Watt, the latter of which was a right-winger. Oh, wait, so was Robertson. The Unibomber also died. George Santos spent the week gathering information to prove his truthful self. Boris Johnson bowed out of Parliament.
And in California, the original site of car culture, Governor Gavin Newsom is begging the legislature to not cut public transportation funds.
I rode a bus once in Los Angeles. My car was in the shop somewhere in east L.A. I had a meeting in Century City. The bus was pretty convenient connecting the two places. I boarded the bus, stuck a handful of coins in the receptacle next to the driver. I looked up to find a seat and was taken aback by the sight of a busload of men wearing tuxedos. I felt under dressed in my three-piece Armani suit.
As we worked our way west on Santa Monica Boulevard, the tuxedo-clad men started disembarking. It was 10:30 in the morning and the busload of men were on their ways to their work as waiters.
But what was really important in the grand scheme of things this week was that the PGA and the Saudi Arabian pay-for-play LIV, after two years of suing each other, were merging. Maybe. No one knows for sure.
“The parties have signed an agreement that combines PIF’s golf-related commercial businesses and rights (including LIV Golf) with the commercial businesses and rights of the PGA Tour and DP World Tour into a new, collectively owned, for-profit entity to ensure that all stakeholders benefit from a model that delivers maximum excitement and competition among the game’s best players,” a statement from some golf faction reads.
Well, that certainly clears things up.
In a surprise press release Tuesday morning, the two circuits, along with the DP World Tour, announced “a landmark agreement to unify the game of golf, on a global basis.”
If anyone could do such a thing, it would come from the financing of the cash-rich Saudi Arabia. Blood money, it should be remembered, is the official currency of Saudi Arabia and only a year ago PGA head Jay Monahan suggested that players who defected to the up-start LIV were sullying the memories of those who lost their lives in the 9/11 attacks.
Monahan was named to be head of the planned merger, but will cede financial dealings to Saudi Arabia’s Public Investment Fund, which also deals in FIFA soccer. The Arab nation is using sports as a platform to improve its image soiled by human rights violations and murderous dismemberment allegedly ordered by Crown Prince Mohammed bin Salman.
That’s an undertaking that seems difficult to accomplish.
This whole ruse is simply about the guarantee of millions of dollars for the golfers. It’s embarrassing to watch Monahan and those participating players contending that “this is what’s best for the game” and “this will allow our game to grow around the globe.”
To do what’s best for the game, I suggest following in the footsteps of Major League Baseball and start setting time limits on certain areas of play.
A couple of weeks ago I was watching a PGA tournament in which a golfer landed on a patch of pine straw. It was his second shot on a par-four hole. The color announcer recalled his various times spent shooting out of pine straw—with and without the presence of trees. Then the play-by-play announcer recalled a bunch of statistics. All the while, the player was trying to decide which club to use. Then they cut to a break that showed advertisements for a luxury car, a Rolex watch, and an investment fund.
After the break, viewers were treated to the golfer consulting with his caddie before finally settling on a club. After a few more minutes of taking practice swings, the golfer extricated his ball from its lie to roars from the crowd.
If baseball players are limited to how much they can take adjusting their gloves and jockstraps, golfers should be similarly restrained, not that there’s any need for a golfer to wear a jockstrap.
Photo illustration by Courtney A. Liska
PORK CHOPS ADAGIO
This was a popular item at my restaurant, Adagio. It’s simple and delicious. Serve with mashed potatoes.
2 (1″-thick) bone-in pork chops
Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper, to taste
3 Tbs. olive oil
5 cloves garlic, thinly sliced
12 pickled cherry peppers, halved
¼ cup dry white wine
¼ cup chicken stock
Heat oven to 425°. Season chops with salt and pepper. Heat 2 tbsp. olive oil in a 12″ skillet over medium-high heat. Fry chops, flipping once, until browned, 5 to 8 minutes. Transfer pan to oven; roast until pork is cooked through, 18–20 minutes. Transfer chops to a plate. Return pan to medium heat, add remaining oil, garlic, and peppers; cook until garlic is golden, 3–4 minutes. Raise heat to high, add wine and stock; cook until reduced by half, 3 to 4 minutes. Spoon sauce over chops.
Yum