"I'd like...to stay...and have my first cham-pa-agne! Yes?...no..."

well, it was like this...Deano and I went golfing.
And we had played 9 when Ernesto came rolling in
and we couldn't make up our minds to go out or wait a bit first.

So, we flipped a coin.

But Ernesto caught the coin mid-flip and savagely hurled that sucker through somebody's front window down near Lethbridge...or was it Caroline?

So into the clubhouse we went.

Had some lunch and an entertaining chat with our Welsh bartender. She recalled tales from back home, shared stories about her daughters and previous marriage as well as asking a gazillion questions regarding our take on various topics ranging from Henry VIII to the Troubles to parenting...which all pretty much fall under the same category when you think about it for a moment...

and then the sun came out again and off Deano and I went, back to swinging away with reckless abandon and athletic prowess, Tiger-ing up the course...

uh yeah...anyway, we finished our round not caring what we shot (I beat Deano by 12 strokes) because a single shot (my 320 yd. MOTHERHUMPIN' BOMB on 9) by either of us could have made the whole day worthwhile.

Rather than the entire round
we played being the sole source of pride and happiness.

And that's what makes the game so great (hearing your brother completely lose his shit because he is so deep in the woods you can't see him) to play. It provides the opportunity (for me to come unglued on an 12 ft. eagle chip and pick up my ball and hurl it into the water hazard and then pout in the cart, arms crossed) to relax outside and really (yell at inanimate objects to try and hurt their feelings) take in all that nature (fucking trees...CHOP THEM DOWN...CHOP ALL OF THE MOFOS DOWN...) has to offer (and torch the fucking course while you're at it) us lowly humans.

Anyhow, that isn't the point of today's post....today's post is about how this is going to be the last one. At least in this format. After the game the lads and I had a chat, well actually, Deano ripped me a new one...it was big too...I had to convert to parsecs to measure the diameter...there's one for all you Star Wars geeks....and James.

Anyway, Deano pointed out how Smash's purpose was for me to riff on a thought, mental wandering if you will, without any real personal attachment to what I wrote, hence the shift from the political slantings to idealistic and philosophical babbling. And he pointed out how I never wanted to display true intimate and deeply personal feelings on it, lest they be misinterpreted or completely missed altogether, although I bent the rules on that one once to say goodbye.

And there was Deano's whole point...I had used Smash as an outlet for my feelings and not my creativity. Now, mind you some of the topics I wrote about are hard to write without some sort of feeling being attached to them natch', but as he mentioned, the audience (himself included) had begun to read Smash and then wonder how I was doing, as if what I was writing was a current indicator of my mood. Which is funny, since I honestly can't think of one column where I was actually feeling anything...well, okay...one. But aside from that, I was always just thinking. And not even personally...just thinking about something that hit me, or something that was related to me by one of you, or something that I had been muttering over...just bloody thinking.

"too close for comfort, brother..."

And he's right. It is too close. There is no way I can continue to write as I have been and maintain the separation between the work and the writer. It was always my intent to throw some random musing out there to amuse, to stimulate thought and or conversation or debate but mainly to get you people through the day. That output was helping me, as it always has, get me through mine.

"'Cos dat's whats I does...I's justs tinks it up and spits it out, no big whoop, no sir."

But it was also my intent, or should I say hope, that people reading would read it as a random thought of the day, which is what it was, and not a indicator of my current mental or emotional state.

Smash has never been nor was it ever intended to be a diary. It was a depository, a receptacle bin for my mental trash and odds and ends.

So picking up the fight my older brother began a long time ago, as has so many of you over the years, and most recently a month or so ago, Deano and the lads said enough. Stop writing. It's time to start WRITING. Creative output only. That way, I can utilize my "natural born talent" (their words not mine) in a fashion that has always brought me joy. It's time to stop being scared and start pumping it out. And with more creative work, if (again their words) people read it and laugh, great. If they are saddened, great. If they hate it, great. So what? The separation will exist where I, as a person, will not be attached to the work, insomuch as simply being its author. I can write as I always have but write as I never have before. And I will not have to worry about misinterpretation any longer, that will be up to you who read it.

So thanks for getting to this point with me.It's been great...it really has. But as I was reminded last night, I can do better. And I should be doing better. And I intend to. Something better for me to ponder and something more for you to read.

as it should have been all along.

so stay tuned.

could be something good...could be something bad...we'll just have to wait and see.