I didn’t believe it at first.  “My home course,” as I frequently called it, has been closed to make way for a housing development, hospital or an industrial park.  Since this area isn’t really a hotbed for, well, anything, the land is pretty much up for grabs.  But the one thing it won’t be is a golf course.  And that sorta sucks.

Magnolia CC – or as it was known for many years, Lakewood CC – wasn’t a very spectacular golf course.  When I first started playing it at age 12, it was only a nine-hole track.  It was flat, like the topography of the entire county, and it often featured as many weeds as it did grass on the greens and fairways.  A thin stand of pines was the only thing separating the fairways, offering little shade and allowing the fairways to become baked as hard as runways.

I really enjoyed the way the old nine-hole course started out.  The first four holes were straight, short-ish par 4s (none exceeded 320 yards).  The only really tricky hole was the 6th, a 140-yard par 3 over the water.  The designer even allowed you to wuss out and play an alternate #6 right past the pro shop for a slightly longer par 3 that featured no water.

But, in my teens, when I was just starting to play the game, the course may as well have been Pebble Beach.  I struggled and sweated under the hot North Carolina sun with a heavy leather golf bag strapped to my shoulder.  The bag, incidentally, weighed approximately 30 times more than the five-piece junior set of clubs I was using – a 2-wood, three irons (5, 7 and 9) and a putter.  My buddy Andy, always a superior golfer who would keep that status to this day, always seemed to be in command on the course, but I hacked around like a drunken Dwight Eisenhower.  In later years, Chris and Chuck would join in, and we’d spray shots around the deserted wasteland.  Good times.

In later years, they expanded Magnolia to include a full 18 holes.  They broke up the monotonous start and added some variety.  They planted young pine trees to augment the 50-60 year old pines that dominated the landscape. They were throwing more money into maintenance and grounds keeping. The old place was starting to come together.  It always felt strange to play a “real course” at Magnolia, but it was still home.

In fact, the last time I played it, about five years ago, I broke 90 for the second time of my life (both times it was at Magnolia). The course was in solid shape, and it seemed to have some nice business.  The sweet lady in the pro shop was intrigued to talk to people who had played the course 20 years before.

That day, I left with the feeling that no matter how far away I got from my hometown – physically, mentally or emotionally – some things stayed permanent.  Or at least semi-permanent.

But that’s impractical.  That flat patch of ground next to I-40 will no longer by “my” golf course.  Or anyone else’s.  Sure, there are other things in and around my hometown that are still the way I remembered them.  Each year, though, these things become fewer and fewer.  You can go home again.  Just don’t expect to recognize everything there.

Not much more to say other than that.  I’d better get back to the Lakers-Celtics game.  OK, it’s now a 23-point lead… in the second quarter.  Ugh.

• After watching the NBA playoffs on TBS, I can honestly say that I detest The Bill Engvall Show, which is really odd since I haven’t seen any more than the previews. I guess it’s because it’s such an unoriginal idea. “Hey… it’s a comedian who’s a dad. And he has little control over his kids. And a hot wife.” I liked it when it was Home Improvement, Everybody Loves Raymond and even the Cosby Show. I hate the other dozen or so.
• Been watching The Office reruns on TBS, as well. One thing I’ve never understood is why Michael’s boss always seems to report to the CFO. I’ve never seen a company where sales reports directly to the financial side of the organization. Is this because none of the writers ever worked for a real company, or are they pointing out that Dunder-Mifflin is just that screwed up.
• They’re showing the rerun now where Jim teaches Dwight to speak a la Benito Mussolini. Brilliant!
• Another reason that Youtube is the greatest thing since sliced bread? This clip from the Match Game. I want Richard Dawson’s tux. And haircut.
• I had a dream the other night that I got into an argument with John McCain. He wanted to start attacking Iran with nuclear weapons within days of becoming president. I was screaming at him that it was going to lead to a regional – if not world – war. He just kept giggling and reaching for a red button.
• If you don’t think that dream meant anything to me, you’re crazy.
• My girl Beth now has a kick-ass blog about being a mom. If you’re not reading it, check it out. Great name – Mother Bunker.
• My four-person beach volleyball team is cranking back up. After a year as the “Wu Tang Clan,” I think we’re going with “Sets on the Beach” or “Fourplay on the Beach.” I’m still holding out for “Alan Parsons Project.”

Here’s what happened:

• 7:50 a.m. ET – Left the house.  Flipped around XM when I got into the car and caught a little of a Chris Rock comedy bit on XM 150.  Always solid.  White people do be outta their mind.
• 7:56 a.m. ET – When XM 150 decides to run an ad, I flip to XM 21 (as I am wont to do), and the Plain White Soulless Moaning T’s are playing “Hey There Delilah.”
• 7:56:30 a.m. ET – I really, really hate Delilah at this point.
• 7:59 a.m. ET – This is where we find a wrinkle in the fabric of the universe.  XM 21 gives me the “Old School” sound blurb, and I brace.
• The song?  Ini Kamoze’s “Here Comes the Hotstepper”
• Why is this significant?  This is the song where the phrase “Sweet Monkey Pie” originated.  Here’s the original explanation.  It’s a misheard lyric from this usually-forgotten tune.
• 8:00 a.m. ET – I’m frantically trying to reach my boy Nipsey on my mobile phone to record this for posterity.  I leave what has to be the most confusing voice mail since Bill O’Reilly drunk-dialed that chick who used to work for him.
• 8:03 a.m. ET – XM 21 ends the madness by going to Soulja Boy’s “Crank That.”  I almost have a wreck trying to do the dance in my car, especially when it gets to the “Superman” line.  Have I mentioned that I’m 34 and white?

So, there you have it.  Definitive proof that XM is either being programmed by the CIA or by crazed gremlins in my brain.  And no, I’m not paranoid.

At precisely 11:42 a.m. ET on Friday, I heard “Straight Outta Compton” on channel 21 again. This time, I verified that it was indeed KISS and not another channel. And it was. So, apparently, that tune is definitely in the playlist.

One slight difference this time around: XM chose a “sanitized” version of that song. As funny as it is to hear NWA on a mainstream-ish radio station, it’s a pure delight to hear the tune with every n-word and f-bomb scratched out.

The non-cussing version reminded me of Mad TV‘s sketch about the Soprano’s syndicated version on Pax TV (taking out the TV-MA stuff reduced the hour-long episodes to 3 minutes). And it’s interesting to note how much better Mad TV‘s Will Sasso was as Tony Soprano than SNL’s Darrell Hammond earlier this season.

But back to the XM thing… when it came on the radio on Friday, I had my windows down and was apparently playing the song pretty loudly. At a stoplight, I was next to a moving truck, and an African-American guy in the passenger seat looked at me, heard the song, and smiled. Just as we got the greenlight, he flashed me the “west side” hand sign. At once petrified and giddy, I drove off. Swear to god, it was one of the funniest things I’ve ever seen.

So, to XM Radio, keep up the good, if bizarre, work you’re doing on the programming side. And to my buddy who works for Two Guys and a Truck, word to the motherfucka.

Pretty much, I lost the guy whose life I lived vicariously through (and yes, Mrs. Sellers, I tried 10 different ways to write that sentence, but it always ended in a preposition, even though you said never to do that back in 12th-grade English – and no, I couldn’t diagram this sentence either).

In the same post where I celebrated the end of one fantastic single guy’s adventure, I mentioned how bmoore, 33, my former college roommate, had started dating a 21-year-old. Keep hope alive! Within hours of Matt’s wedding, bmoore had taken the torch and started running with it.

What I didn’t know is that he was just running with it. He was flat-out sprinting with it. Turns out he had some stories from the dating world that couldn’t be summed up in a phone call or a comment.

So, bmoore is becoming the first guest columnist for Sweet Monkey Pie. Let’s all make him feel welcome.

When he answered the phone, I gave him an update on how great the weather was, how cute the coeds looked, etc. Just the standard drill. Then, I asked what he’s up to.

“I’m packing,” he said.

“Where ya going?” I asked.

“Vegas!”

“Vegas?”

“Vegas, baby, Vegas!”

“Cool! What brought this on?”

[Pause] “We’re eloping.”

This was just thunderous, earth-shattering news for a couple of different reasons. Nipsey and his betrothed had talked about a wedding sometime in 2007, first in Turkey (where her family is centered) and then in New York (because, presumably, it’s closer than Turkey). But, now the wedding was going down in Vegas in 24 hours. Wow… I did NOT see that coming.

My first reaction is that, Dammit, I can never trump him with any news. Several years ago, I called to let him know of something bizarre that happened at work, and he tells me that he’s actually in Vegas and had spent the previous night “on the town” with a infamous Vegas madam and her cohorts. How did that happen? Damned if I can remember, but at one point he was at a table with a mafia guy, a crooked cop – and they were sharing an appetizer. You can’t beat that story.

The second reason this is earth-shattering is… well, hell, this is my boy Nipsey, who has lived in a state of restless bachelorhood that has alternated between choatic depravity and depraved delirium. Since I’m a married guy in the ‘burbs, I lived vicariously through his tales of beautiful new relationships — and how they went awry. Now that was ending.

But, after the initial shock, I couldn’t express how happy I was (and am). I haven’t met the Mrs. Nipsey yet, but from what I hear, Yasemin’s a keeper – and he’s a lucky man. Kudos on making it legal, Nip. It’s harder for her to get away then.

Of course, it was a bittersweet moment for me — and for a cadre of my friends who don’t even know Nipsey but have heard the stories and now wait anxiously, as I do, for the next one. Those days are gone. His next stories will be about eradicating weeds from the garden and finding the perfect topiary display to compliment the drapes. OK, that’s highly unlikely, but still. The world has changed.

But they always say, “When one door closes, another opens.” Last night, I had a chat with bmoore, another Carolina alum who is still single. bmoore (whose nickname is always lowercase in my world, much like e.e. cummings) is currently dating a 21-year-old. He’s 33. There are two other girls that he has his eye on, as well. As a result, he’s alternating between bouts of depression, paranoia and euphoria.

I needed that. Good hustle, bmoore. I reminded him that he’s no longer dating just for him, but he’s dating for himself and a bunch of people that I know. No pressure, bmoore. But don’t let us down.

* Nipsey published a column about whether the object of your desire worth the price it takes to achieve it. He asked me via email about how I, a longtime Dallas Cowboys trade, felt about the Terrell Owens trade. Was it worth the risk? I spent 10 minutes writing a 12 paragraph diatribe about how me and the Cowboys were D-U-N done. Check out the column to see a few paragraphs of my ranting. He gives a nod to SMP. The revolution will be televised (or at least covered in sports-related columns).

[By the way, washing my hands of the Cowboys was startlingly easy. I realized that I've always been a fan of an ideal. Back when I idolized Tony Dorsett, Roger Staubach, Drew Pearson, Tony Hill... don't get me started. Even when I was watching the Emmitt Smith-Troy Aikman-Michael Irvin triumverate, it never approached my glory days (between ages 4-8). Maybe it was because I saw things through the innocence of youth. Maybe it was because I was just learning about sports, period, and everything stuck in my head. Maybe it was because Michael Irvin was always a phone call away from smacking a hooker over a vial of crack. Anyway, I'm done with 'em. Probably. Catch me in the fall.]

* I ran into a friend of a friend earlier today. She said the sweetest, but odd-sounding, thing at the end of the conversation. “I’m sending Sweet Monkey Pie to all my friends.” I’m guessing Hallmark doesn’t have a card for that.

By the way, another friend of SMP, the “Skeeter” who was chronicled in earlier posts (here and here) is flummoxed by this story about NBC’s Dateline trying to “entrap” (my words) NASCAR fans into making anti-Muslim statements. They’re scheme? Send some Middle Eastern guys to a NASCAR race and watch the tomfoolery.

Trouble is, the racing fans didn’t pay them any attention. And now NBC looks like it has less journalistic scruples than… let’s see… I’d say the New York Times, circa 1999.

Well, short post for tonight. Hope everyone has a nice weekend.

Like anyone in America, I have friends who love the Steelers. Seriously, wherever you go, there are a bunch out there. All you have to do is say, “Jack Lambert wasn’t all that great!” in a crowded room… and wait. Whoever tries to slap the teeth out of your jaw, that’s your Steelers fan.

I’m lucky enough to have a few of them hanging around… a couple at work, one in the neighborhood, and a bunch in my circle of friends. One is Nipsey, who blogged about his love of the Steelers recently (if only briefly… he also had a “dead pool” to comment on as well as his undying hatred of Mike Patrick… it was a busy weekend). Nipsey once met Lynn Swann while working in sports information at Georgia Tech; Swanny was the sideline reporter at a GaTech game, and Nip played his male groupie. No restraining orders were necessary — quite a surprise when I heard the whole story.

Nipsey is typical of the “born and raised” Steeler fan. He hails from Erie, Pa., so he got his love of the black and gold naturally. My other favorite Steelerhead is a guy who came by the magic of Pittsburgh through the magic of TV.

My boy Chuckie is one of the millions of kids out there who became addicted to the Bradshaw-led squad in the late 70s. Chuckie grew up near me in eastern NC, and he gravitated to Pittsburgh. There was no local team unless you counted the Redskins or the Falcons — and an eight-hour drive doesn’t count as local to a five-year-old. Chuckie is renowned for watching Steeler games in a fit of pent-up angst, often changing positions (from the couch to the floor to a chair), thinking that the change helps his team. Watching a game with Chuckie is like watching a toddler after a chocolate binge. But with more cussing.

You know, it’s hard to beat Steeler fans. They’re not as crass as Philly fans. Not as ambivalent as Atlanta fans. Not as freakin’ scary as Raider fans. Just unbelievably loyal. Back in September, I attended the epic Houston-Pittsburgh game in H-town. Beyond the fact that it was 95+ degrees — and they left the roof open (don’t get me started) to help give the Texans an edge over the black-shirted Steelers — the one thing I’ll remember is the number of black-and-gold shirts in the crowd. It was amazing. Now, I didn’t expect that the Texans had that great of a following as they reach the “prime” of the David Carr years. But, over a third of the crowd were Steeler fans. UNC alum and unlikely NFL success story Willie Parker ran for a bunch of yards, and Pittsburgh went on to an easy win.

So, Pittsburgh hits the AFC championship. And seemingly half of the people I know will be queasy, anxious… possibly piss drunk. Even as a Dallas fan, I know good fans when I see them. But, because Chuckie and Nipsey will kill me (quite literally) if I jinx their team, I’m predicting a Denver win. A big one. 66-3, maybe. Everybody happy? Good.

Like a lot of teams in the UNC intramural league, the best part of the team experience was the naming process. Navy ROTC had a team. The name? Shooting Seamen. The year after the Mavericks only won handful of their 82 games (aka, the Quinn Buckner lost season), there were two teams named the Dallas Mavericks. There were always creative slams against Duke – about a dozen or so each year.

So, for those of us who can’t “ball,” coming up with a name was paramount. The main reason for this is that every team manager took part in a league-wide meeting at the beginning of the season. At the end, the intramural director would call out each team name to get the schedule and rules packet. The roll call was the defining moment of the season (at least for me). If you got a chuckle in that room, it was like knocking them dead at a Friar’s Club roast. Tough crowd. Discerning. Jaded. And “Critically Caucasian” always got the best laugh. Every year. For four years.

Now, you might ask yourself — assuming you’re still reading this — just how god-awful was the team that I’m still writing about the team name. Pretty damn bad. The name wasn’t just catchy. It was pretty accurate. Take my freshman year, for example. At an even 6-0, I was not only the starting point guard but I was the tallest guy on the team and had to anchor the lethargic 2-3 zone defense. Magic Johnson switched from point guard to center in the 1980 NBA finals (after Kareem got hurt) and earned his place among the greats. I did it… and it was just pitiful.

None of us had played any ball out of rec league. None of us had played the “big” high school sports like football or baseball. We were tennis players, golfers, trivia club geeks. But, we had moments. During our sophomore year, Kevin accidentally clothslined an opponent in the lane (who was driving “off the bounce” as Len Elmore would say). For a second, Kevin celebrated like Chuck Bednarik after obliterating Frank Gifford. Then, he realized what he had done and helped the guy up. Another time, we actually had two non-Causcasian football players who took part on the team, pushing the “irony needle” to maximum limits. Didn’t help significantly, although we got “mercy ruled” a lot less for a while.

Oh yeah… the “mercy rule.” At UNC, if a team got ahead by 40 points at any time, the game was over. For good reason. One time, we played four regular season games and a plalyoff game. Five games… four mercy rules. You getting the picture? We were bad.

By my junior year, however, things got a little better. My buddies Neil and Russell (aka, b-moore) joined the squad, each at about 6-3. Sure, they had a combined weight of about 270, but it was height. And Neil had a friend whose name escapes me, but he was about 6-1 and strong (muscles were a relatively new concept as well). Add to that some of the veterans — a feisty Kevin, a scrapping Tony, a hyper and well-coifed Nipsey — it was good enough to be competitive.

And it finally happened. Woolen Gym. A crisp winter day. Playing the American Gladiators, we were tied at the end of regulation. Neil’s friend, what’s-his-name, fouled out after the first OT… Russell was a no-show due to a school assignment (the doofus)… things were on the precipice of disaster. There was no score in the second OT, so we went to the third. Bear in mind, this is rec-league, so the OTs were 2 minutes long because folks were waiting to play the next game. Seriously, folks were lined two-deep to see the ending — composed of the players of the next two teams set to face-off on that court. We had fans, too… usually a long-suffering girlfriend or two, but nothing major. This was the biggest crowd ever at a CC game.

In the third OT, I saw a crack in the defense and drove the lane (again, “off the bounce”). I went up for a layup, and predictably, missed. But, they called a foul, and I got two foul shots. The referee told us that there were only three seconds left (yeah, this is big-time sports: no scoreboard, just a Casio wristwatch). So, I went to the free throw line… tie game… heart pounding… knowing that I could end the humility with one made shot. Maybe two.

You know what? I actually hit both of them. The Gladiators inbounded the ball and threw up a desparation three-pointer from 45-feet that bounced twice off the rim. For a second, I thought God was just toying with me, but it fell harmlessly away. The team immediately mobbed me, and it was the best feeling I’ve ever had in sports. I was hugging people blindly, and then I realized that I didn’t know this dude who was patting me on the back.

“Great job! You’re on our court. We got next game. Get off!”

There was the obligatory celebration on Franklin Street. We drank a few beers, and ambled back to my dorm — Old East, the birthplace of the university. We sat on the steps, recounted the game and smoked cheap cigars. A great night.

Of course, we never won another game. In a way, I’m glad we didn’t. Winning is tough. But losing with a mixture of humor and humility is a better lesson. That was the best group of losers I’ve ever seen. And I’d give anything to get back on the floor with them again. Mercy rule or not, it’d be fun. It always was.