In the desert with Dinah

For the second year in a row, I spent Xmas in Palm Springs. If you've never tried it, don't knock it. I'm now completely sold on the entire snowbirdazonic proposition—doing the gift-giving thing on Xmas Eve, complete with seriously decadent fatass ribeye roast beef, then waking up the next morning and playing golf at some cool cat old school PS track lined with swingin' mid-century moderns that finger-poppingly date back to the days when Bob Hope, Frank Sinatra and Dinah Shore were royalty here. Bathed in sunshine, temps of 68 with nary a breeze, it's easy to embrace the alcohol-soaked lifestyle of a debauched heathen who realizes that the real reason you slog through 18 holes in the glorious desert is to make that first round of cocktails taste oh so dreamy. And down here for the holidaze, that first round of drinks does indeed materialize many minutes—or perhaps hours—before 5.

And yes, I now realize, after hanging here with my daughter and some of her friends, many millenials have absolutely no effing clue as to who I'm talking about when I start bloviating about Bob, Frank and Dinah.

Hotels? Bah. A strategy for unimaginative dolts. You get three paying entities together, whether they be couples or swingin' singles or whatever, rent a three bedroom/three bath for $300 a night, a joint with outdoor kitchen, pool, hot tub, etc., and for your hundred clams a night you're having a major ball soaking up the solar shine in this fabulous desert town. Spend an Xmas in Palm and you too just might realize that White Christmases are gigantically overrated.

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Football fetish nation, part 4. I have no idea as to the friction that existed between the 49ers front office and Coach Harhar and why that friction led to the cessation of their relationship. But I will say that when you got a guy with the resume that Coach Jim put together, you might wanna go ahead and deal with whatever screwball idiosyncrasies he brings to the party. You know, once in a while, you just say, “Hey, we had a suckass year” and move on.

In defense of our boy Kap, I will say yes, he really had a mediocre year, but wasn't a big part of his downslide the undeniable reality that the 49er O-line was holier than a hobo's socks? Forfuxsake, what the hell is Kap sposed to do when he's getting pounded into a human grease spot every other pass play?

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Football fetish nation, part 5. I love it when coaches say, after getting beat down by 41-3, “Well, we obviously weren't ready to play today.” What he's really saying, of course, is, “Those guys are much better players than my guys.” When a coach says, “I've got to do a better job of coaching,” he's really saying, “Those guys are much better players than my guys.” Yet it's funny how that simple and oh so accurate breakdown of a game is never, ever, ever heard at the post-game podium.