God's country

I love Malibu.

I have since the day I bought a one way ticket away from Suffern, NY to not-so-suffering Southern California some ___ years ago.

On my third day here I hopped on a brown bus and went up the storied Pacific Coast Highway. I got off at Malibu beach. Threw the frisbee with some hippies. Then laid down on my towel, fell asleep and woke up three hours later, redder than a matador's cape.

The next day I was at the UCLA hospital, nursing 2nd degree burns and getting my first prescription for industrial strength painkillers. Mmmmm, codeine.....

Malibu is also home to the Malibu Country Club. A golf course that might sound stuffy and pretentious but wasn't. In fact, it's a Muni. And for a time it's where we, Jerry Gentile, John Shirley, Mark Fenske and myself, had a regular semi-weekly game.

A regular Tuesday morning game.

This was the high flying late 90's when creatives were not only given respect, we were given latitude and liberty. And goddamnit if we didn't exploit the hell out of that.

Those expense account-paid Tuesday morning games were some of the best times in my life. I would drive there before the sun rose. And we'd tee off while the temperature was still in the arctic 60's. Once on the course, we'd often run into celebrities -- James Worthy, Arnold Schwarznegger and Kelsey Grammar.

We played a lot of shitty golf. Though I did birdie the Fourth Hole (pictured above), a 205 yard downhill Par 3, rumored to be the most difficult hole on the course.

But mostly, we laughed.

We stopped being ad guys in search of the next big account or award. We left the politics and the career angling back in the parking lot. And we willfully regressed to a carefree age when boys could be boys. I know that phrase carries some baggage these days, but I'm not about to start sugarcoating my memories.

Nothing illustrates my point better than the escapades at the 18th hole, where, like the 4th, the tee box sits high atop a hill. Only much steeper and with a much longer fairway.

We would let the foursome behind us play through so that we were granted as much time as possible at this Everest-like peak. There, we would pull out the dingers and practice balls as well as the many strays Jerry had found in the rattlesnake-infested shrubs, grab our titanium-nickel-blastonium drivers, grip it and rip it.

The highlight of this morning launch party was watching Fenske, a midwest man/moose who stands about 6'4" and tips the scales somewhere between Brian Urlacher and Mike Singletary. Apart from being a smart, dark, cynical and magically talented legend, Mark is monstrously strong.

He could knock the Titleist 1 ink off the cover of the ball.

When he would hit it, the smack would echo through the Santa Monica Canyons. Often followed by a guy putting on the 16th green remarking, "Whoah, what was that?"

Also of note, he would never hit the ball straight.

I'll never forget the time he crushed a Top Flite 3 with the force of a small tactical nuke. The ball sliced to the right and rainbowed into the south parking lot. It set off a car alarm. On its second descent it hit a large boulder on a horse path. It skied upward again and found a groove along Kanan Dune Road.

I am convinced that ball is still rolling through the backroads of Calabassas.

The fires that ravaged this area have all been doused.

I hope the golf course, my daughter's sleepaway camp (JCA) and the friends and colleagues that have made their home in this beautiful land recover soon.

Because I love Malibu.