Something was strange at the outset. The tee shot was long and straight, normally short and left. A five iron second left the ball 20 feet below the pin, normally a three-wood 40 yards short of the green. The putt fell for birdie, normally double-bogey. That was the first of three birdies to go with three bogeys for even par 36, normally a 43 to 50. He felt absorbed, bemused, lightheaded. At the turn, he stared at himself in the bathroom mirror. The returning gaze was foreign, eyes ever so slightly slanted. Strange. Well, the wheels will come off, he thought. His playing partners thought so too. Almost grateful, he went bogey, bogey, bogey, double on the first four holes of the back side. That’s more like it, he reflected, but realized he hit the ball awfully well to have those scores. On the next five holes he recorded five straight pars for a 40 and a 76 total, by far his career round. He was giddy, euphoric, anticipating what this meant. What it meant was the next day he shot 90 and in successive weeks nothing under 87. Then it was clear. The 76 wasn’t his. Never was. It belonged to an intruder who visited for a day and left his host as suddenly as he arrived. Will he return? Doubtful. But now, when extraterrestrial incidents create controversy and disbelief, there will be one less skeptic among us.

You have a routine doctor’s appointment. You would just as soon be strapped into an oak chair and forced to listen to Katie Couric’s prattle. But, no, you must keep the appointment and dare not be late. In fact, you must arrive early to assure that you have time in the main waiting room to read at least one Newsweek and one People cover to cover before you wait in the little examining room where invariably you rifle every drawer and cabinet in search of some medical oddity. Generally, all you find is the tube of jelly that gratefully helps mitigate the “wave” in finger wave. The day isn’t good. On a scale of 1–10, 10 being a Category Five Hurricane, the misery index aspires to a 12. Fierce winds lash unmercifully. Freezing rains pelt like gravel. Frigid temperatures pierce the bone. Your inner voice begs, “Cancel.” Nothing — but nothing — good can come of this. You’re not ill and everybody knows it’s bad luck to set foot in a medical office when you’re healthy. Everybody knows you’ll leave with a disease that afflicts only one person in 30 million. They will prod and poke and scrape and stick your healthy body until they find an intruder that sneaked in while you weren’t looking. “So what,” you think. “A lot of intruders come and go and you never even know it.” As you swing open the door and step to the receptionist desk, you bitterly resign yourself to accept the inevitable, an attitude ill suited for what would happen next. Soggy, windblown and numb, you stand before a youngish wisp outfitted in medical blues, slouched before a CRT. Cute thing, dark hair, dark lashes. You gaze, actually stare, at her bored expression, prompting her to notice you, expecting any moment to see her eyes flick up and hopefully light up with enthusiasm and possibly offer a smile that could dispel your gloom. A long minute passes. Evidently, she’s in the middle of one hell of a crisis that must be resolved this very second. She’s transfixed. Even though you’re only three feet away — you could reach out and yank off an earring — she seems oblivious, like the waitress who refuses to make eye contact as you frantically wave your arms. Inconceivable. You think to yourself that Helen Keller would at least have smelled you. Be calm. If patience is a virtue, it’s your chance to practice. So you pace slowly, finally turning to stand with your back to the wisp. Give her time. Three minutes in, just as you turn, she rises and you expect, “Good afternoon, sir, I’m so sorry to keep you waiting, blah, blah. . .” But no, not a word. Not a gesture. Not a glance. Eyes downcast, she walks to the back of the office. This is your chance. Just leave! This scene confirms you shouldn’t have come in the first place. This is the dreaded signal of impending doom. Your inner voice shouts, “Leave now.” Nothing — but nothing — good can come of this. Like a serial stalker, you stare at the wisp as she chats with a co–worker. Five minutes in, she returns, sits and resumes the trance. You flat don’t exist. You’re nobody. The movie “Falling Down” flashes before your mind. The fast food scene is especially appetizing. But, luckily, you’re not Michael Douglas and you’re not concealing an AK–47. Instead, as menacingly as possible, you snarl clearly, “Lady, do you intend to acknowledge me in this lifetime, should I kick over some furniture or do you simply want me to leave?” Slapping her would have been less of a shock. Gasping and offended, she hyperventilates and demands roughly, “What’s your name?” Give the wisp credit. She doesn’t apologize but angrily plays the victim. Paperwork in hand, which takes her all of 5 seconds to produce, you wait to be called, all the while glaring at the wisp as she miraculously comes to life, gushing and dripping and fawning over every other visitor, as if to say, “See, I’m really very friendly and wonderfully efficient and you’re a jerk.” You’re seething, anxious to blow her out of the water with her superiors. You don’t want a simple reprimand; you want humiliation, then the axe. You bide your time in the examining room, anxious to cast blame — only of course, after the doctor morbidly pronounces you have a mere six months to live. Incredibly, the sentence is not death. No, there is no intruder. Can you believe it? You’re in mint condition. Giddy, half naked, you decide the doctor can’t be bothered with a patient grievance. You’ll take it up with the office manager on the way out. Damn well better believe it. Right now, though, like O.J., you want out of Dodge before the jury changes its mind. At the desk, you can hear the wisp sweetly greet a patient. Phoney. It’s payback, baby. You take a breath to let the hammer fall. “Thanks for everything, Angie. You guys be careful going home. It’s a mess out there.” Outside, the storm rages, but you relish the icy blast and turn your face to the sky. Silly superstition or not, you just got a reprieve. Better still, you gave a reprieve. Your inner voice whispers, “Maybe something good came of this.”

It’s a rainy day. Ahh, sweet, sweet rain. Everything that grows looks up and says, “Thank you God; we were so dirty, so thirsty.” They show their delight. Blossoms perk up joyfully; all things green gets greener; the earth sighs gratefully; the air itself breathes a musky perfume. Face it. Your cynicism doesn’t come easy on a day such as this. But then you make the mistake of giving in to a deadly addiction. You could strip and stand naked in the rain. You could paint the garage. You could read — anything. You could volunteer to help at a dozen places. You could trim your nose hair. Instead, you surrender. You plop down and pick up the remote and allow yourself to wallow with that malignant narcotic we call — TV. This is what addiction is all about. You knowingly and willingly participate in “activity” that no self–respecting robot would stomach. You shudder to realize that you devote over 10 full years of your lifetime — approximately 90,000 hours — as a sponge, sucking up (and God help you, paying for) abject drivel. Time out. You’re thinking TV is not all garbage. Okay, let’s be kind and generous. Let’s say 10% of programming has true entertainment value, artistic integrity or meaningful purpose. Multiply the dividend by the square root of X to the 5th power and divide by Y and you can feel liberated knowing you devote only 9.2 years of your precious existence lapping up broadcast swill. Intellectually, you know television is just short of worthless; yet you give it prominence in your home and dominion over your life. You worship it at first light and last waking thought. You can’t do without it. At the fitness center. In the restaurant. In the hotel room. You listen to talk shows as if celebrities and talking heads have more insight, greater brainpower and loftier opinions than your own. You realize that the dumbing down of America — culturally, morally and educationally — is largely television driven. Yet you do nothing about it. Here’s a thought. Boycott TV for one week. Tell your friends to live one measly week without it. Not one second of airtime. Tell them to tell their friends. Hold on, Clyde, this is one powerful drug you’re talking about. Imagine the pain. Imagine life without television. Nobody to hear politicians lie. Nobody to hear talking heads butcher the English language. Nobody to watch celebs bask in their self–importance. Nobody to witness second–rate programming and pathetically boring advertising. Imagine America the Beautiful without TV for 6 months. Imagine what you could do with 10 more years of life. Imagine.