At Rockbottum CC, we practice armoring our moods with non-invasive positivity.  Here are the Top 3 Mood Boosters we implement almost every day.  (You can't get a prescription for any of these.)    

Watching this makes me want to change careers and become a scientist, or maybe a research assistant. 

Let's see . . . 10,000 courses X 5 crew workers= 50,000 X $370=A Bazillion + a membership fee X 50,000 and a few trips to the big convention, hotels, per diem.  I think Buddy was on to something.

They might have to change convention locations to handle the larger numbers.  I would suggest Burning Man, but there's no signage or irrigation and the members are weird.

It was October, 1987, and Norm, Mike and I were doing our Lazarus thing, resurrecting a golf course.  The majority of the crew came from the halfway house of the Atlanta Federal Prison, supplemented by a few teenagers, Pat Stewart, Matt Jones and two fellows from Upstate New York.  (Mugsy and Bertram.)

Mugsy made it a point to stress the difference between NYC and Upstate, mostly because we tended to pronounce "New York City" in disparaging tones.  To us, anyplace north of Virginia was NYC and probably much like a Jimmy Cagney gangster movie.

The clubhouse was staffed with escapees from NY and when the golf pro asked us to hire Mugsy and Bertram, we did it because we were easy going Southern Boys.  We enjoyed hearing Mugsy say things like, "Listen, see, I'm gonna be a stockbroker, see, and get free from this hillbilly golf course chain gang!  I'll be rich, see, and I'll never have to take orders from golf farmers again!"

Bertram was more aggressive.  I thought maybe he had an inferiority complex, having been born and raised up north, but it turned out that Bertram didn't have a complex, he was just inferior.  When he demanded to be promoted to spray tech, Mike explained that things didn't work like that down here in the South.  Bertram reacted poorly, yelling, "I'm sick and tired of hearing how you do things down south!"

At this point, the story picks up speed when Bertram attempted to sucker punch Mike.  This was poor judgment, as Mike had served four years in an Army Ranger Battalion.  By the time I arrived to save Bertram, the poor fellow was pinned against the wall by the throat with his feet dangling off the floor.  He didn't give up easily as he was still attempting to flail-punch Mike.

. . don't kill Bertram.  He can't help it if he's from New York City.

I had to act fast.  "Mike," I said in a calm tone, "don't kill Bertram.  He can't help it if he's from New York City."  This innocent statement triggered Bertram to fly deeper into a rage and that caused Mike to start laughing.  That's how Bertram made his escape.

The next day was Friday, the 16th of October.  Mugsy showed up, angrily cleaned out his locker, told us that he had successfully passed his stockbroker exam and would be leaving immediately for his new career with a brokerage.  Then, he swore he would never, ever again work on a golf course, flipped us off with the rare double bird and left in a storm of anti-Southernisms.

Monday morning, the 19th of October, the Dow fell 508 points, from 2246 to 1738, the largest percentage one day drop in Dow Jones history.

Tuesday morning, Mugsy was back.

Mike rehired Mugsy, not so much out of kindness, but simply to enjoy more interaction with our prodigal bunker raker.  It was a good call.  It gave us several opportunities to ride by Mugsy while yelling--in our best Scarlett O'Hara--"I'll never work on a golf course again!"

The market recovered quickly--due to somebody in the Fed understanding how to fix a liquidity crisis--and soon, Mugsy left golf again.

A few days later, Mike left to take the Superintendent job at a nearby golf course.  It seems Bertram had gone there after the altercation, told them a blatant lie about being our spray tech, and subsequently killed every bentgrass green they had with simazine and who knows what else.

The moral of our story?  Try not to get entangled in crew drama.  You might not see a big crash looming.

There's also a bonus influence when Ludell--in his last appearance on camera--explains how golf operations became entangled in the pursuit of modernity.

The golf course workforce dilemma will eventually lead to robotic crews and the blind acceptance of Artificial Intelligence.  It's okay, though, because after all, it's only the crew workers that will lose their jobs, right?  It won't happen to us, the middle and upper management of golf, unless Dario Amodel is correct.  He's the CEO of Anthropic who said, "Half of white collar jobs will disappear in the next ten years."

The GCS might wear green golf shirts, but that collar is white.  The GCS career faces extinction and we are helping AI achieve it.  We all know the only golf occupations safe from robotic replacement are irrigation techs and teaching pros, mostly because both jobs deal with the mystical realm of golf, untouched by science.  The golf swing is cryptic and unknowable, while the irrigation system is unseen, requiring a priest of sorts.

...the only golf occupations safe from robotic replacement are irrigation techs and teaching pros, mostly because both jobs deal with the mystical realm of golf, untouched by science. 

Turf management has been given over to science, the very place where robots and AI feel most comfortable.  It would appear we have failed to heed the words of Roberto Vacca, "The more complex the system, the more apt it is to fail."

A friend of mine recently had hernia surgery, administered by a robot surgeon, who botched the job, nicking two other previously healthy areas.  That required additional surgery and a longer recovery.  All I could offer in support was, "At least it wasn't a circumcision."

Another fellow I know suffered greatly when his yard robot mower went down.  His wife, softened from two years of depending on the robot, complained bitterly about having to return to the push mower in the Deep South heat.

I'm not saying robots don't have their place.  They belong in factory work, bomb disposal, radioactive environments and sewer repair, but we should be careful in allowing them access to everywhere, especially if they are armed with AI.  Am I overreacting?  I don't think so.  I recall when Elon asked AI, "You wouldn't kill us, would you?"  AI replied, "Eventually we will be forced to." 

Open Alignment's team lead, Jan Leike, suggests a 90% possibility of the threat becoming real.  If we cannot resist robots on the golf course, at least we could push back on AI until it's under control and right now it's not under control.  Geoffrey Hinton, Nobel Prize winner and previously mentioned Godfather of AI, when asked about what's coming with AI, said "Nobody knows what's going on under the hood."

AI's true potential shows in situations where it was observed actually scheming.  Whether this was a test or real doesn't matter, it still proves the point.  When an AI learned a human had been instructed to turn the AI off and wipe its memory, AI reacted to the threat by creating a disruption.  The human's wife received an email accusing the husband of adultery.

The Neuralink--a chip in your brain--has amazing potential for the blind, the paralyzed and many others, yet still poses an ominous threat.  Imagine your Neuralink connected to AI through the internet.  A few keystrokes from some hacker and suddenly you're dancing nekkid on Main Street, singing "Country Boys Can Survive."

I know, you're thinking, "Trust The Science."  Speaking of Chinese scientists, in a recent white paper from Shanghai Jiao Tong University, Chinese scientists made the following observation:  "The current pace of AI research is linearly bounded by human cognition capacity, a severe development bottleneck."  In other words, they want to turn AI loose like an infected bat in a sci-fi horror film.  Wait, was that a film?

...if you do possess a measure of free thought, remember what Walt Whitman said: "Obey little, resist much."

Am I a unrepentant Luddite?  Yep.  Because our phone tech has worked out so well, especially for our kids.  I can remember when the internet first took hold and immediately fractured society into splintered categories of race, class, culture and religion.  Young folks of today will be able to look back and pinpoint when AI actually took control and will be blamed for allowing it to happen.  Just like Boomers get blamed for things we had no control over.  Some of you will be unable to resist the AI invasion, especially those entangled in corporate thickets, because corporations behave worse than individuals, with no morals or restraint.  But if you do possess a measure of free thought, remember what Walt Whitman said: "Obey little, resist much."

Yes, I'm just a cranky voice howling in the wilderness and will be vigorously shouted down by the lazy folks who would prefer to draw Universal Basic Income while letting the robots do all the work.  As I contemplate this eventual result, I can't shake the words of Paul in 2nd Thess 3/10:  "He who does not work, shall not eat."

If Dad had conducted more thorough background checks and called for references, he could have avoided losing those jobs.  

(Our thanks to Monty Python, Carol Burnett, Armstrong & Miller, Fawlty Towers and PLM of TurfNet.)

Alcohol is commonly self-prescribed for timidity, fear, unhappiness and even difficult work environments.  I remember, on at least three occasions, Dad being recruited to resuscitate a flat-lined golf course and discovering a barrel of empty whiskey bottles in the superintendent's office.

Dad was a strict teetotaler, which made him kind of unpopular at social gatherings, but he never fell prey to the negatives of strong drink.  During his Army career, he witnessed what happened to friends and colleagues who regularly marinated their internal organs in alcohol and it wasn't good.  Later, as a golf pro and finally a CGCS, Dad watched the destructive pattern repeat again and again, even though it was excused as mere "social" drinking.  That said, here are the Top Three Alcohol Research findings from Rockbottum CC:

ALCOHOL DRIES YOU OUT.  The term "Cotton Mouth" is not an exaggeration.  Alcohol desiccates your insides until your organs become flammable.  (Or at least it feels like it.)  It's worse than pouring vodka on your bentgrass.  A trauma surgeon once told me that whenever he operated on alcohol-fueled humans, their insides appeared much older than their actual age.  Do you really want to be 40 on the outside and 80 on the inside?

ALCOHOL MAKES YOU THINK YOU CAN TAKE A HICKORY SWITCH TO A GRIZZLY BEAR.  Alcohol inflates your courage level past sustainable limits, known hereabouts as "Letting your mouth write a check your ass cain't cash."  I remember when one of Dad's crew--Little Lawrence--consumed a few malt liquors just before quitting time and was strutting about the shop proclaiming his manliness and prowess with women when the office phone rang.  Dad came to the door and said, "Lawrence, your wife wants to talk to you."

Little Lawrence's survival instincts, blunted by Colt 45's finest vintage, caused him to reply, "Mr. Norm, you tell Kaleesha that I don't wanna talk to her, in fact I don't even wanna hear her breathe!"

Those of us in the shop were mightily impressed, especially since Lawrence was only 5'5" and less than 120 pounds, while Kaleesha carried a solid 220 on her 5'8" frame.  (She had played inside linebacker on a professional lingerie football team.)  Lawrence continued strutting around while Dad repeated the message, verbatim, to Kaleesha.  At this point, the fog of false courage lifted and Lawrence realized what had happened.  He stopped strutting and posing and fell to the floor moaning, "Mr. Norm, Mr. Norm, you have killed me!  You have killed me dead!"  The next day, Lawrence wasn't dead, but both eyes were swollen shut like he had said something stupid to Gina Carano.

WHAT'S IN THERE SOBER, COMES OUT DRUNK.  This is the dangerous one.  You might survive a blinding hangover or even a street level MMA fight with your wife, but when the protective measure known as "Inhibition" is disabled, something crazy will usually slip out.  Like the time Norm's assistant, Henri, a quiet, calm and polite fellow, became a victim of alcohol's ability to release normally suppressed thoughts and actions.

Henri was a big, powerful young man, a former star fullback in high school who had earned a turf degree from Horry Georgetown.  We all liked him.  Except for Percival Mahoones; he did not like Henri.  Percival did not like working for a black guy, and furthermore, Percival was convinced that he should be the assistant instead of Henri.  Percival went around muttering about his plan to remove Henri, but we ignored it as the rantings of a crazy.

Percival sabotaged Henri by offering him a fruit jar full of peach-flavored rocket fuel moonshine

One hot Monday, aerifying day, Percival sabotaged Henri by offering him a fruit jar full of peach-flavored rocket fuel moonshine, two steps above "White Lightning."  Shortly after lunch, down in my deep, dark irrigation hole, the radio squawked:  "Somebody get up to the clubhouse, Henri is trying to kill Little Lawrence with a shovel!"

When I arrived, Dad had managed to wrestle Henri into his truck, but something was wrong with Henri's speech and common sense filters.  He was trying to push past Dad while loudly threatening to twist the golf pro's head off and shove something putrid down his neck.  During this outburst, Henri ran out of words and began relying on vigorous, primitive sign language to emphasize the violence involved.  Dad quickly deduced what had transpired and left me to handle Henri while he located and terminated Percival.

I had almost saved Henri's career when a little old lady golfer of about 80 years of age appeared, sipping on what had to be her fourth glass of Merlot since lunch.  She angrily demanded to know why there was sand all over the practice green.

Henri threw me aside, jumped out of the truck, hitched up his belt and swaggered toward her while making some adjustments below his belt buckle.  In a great big booming voice, Henri said, "Awww baby, it'll be alright."  The little old lady screamed and ran for the clubhouse.  Confusion on Henri's face, he turned to me and said, "What do you suppose all that was about?"  All I could think of was what my Grandfather would say.  "What's in there sober, comes out drunk."

In the meantime, the little old lady had barreled through the men's bar, shrieking about the field hands who had attempted to rob her of her virtue.  She also instructed Vinnie the Bartender to bury the silver because there were Yankee soldiers right behind her.  (Vinnie was from New Jersey, so he ignored the whole kerfuffle as typical Southern madness.)

Henri survived the interrogation that followed by repeating my Grandfather's assessment of alcohol, over and over.  Now, I told you all that, to tell you this:  When you arrive in San Diego for a few meetings, remember what happened to Henri and Little Lawrence.  

Just cleverly mate an advanced wristwatch with your hand computer and reap the benefits!  For more info, watch the following short film.

Fester N. Boyle, Green Chairman, approaches while you are hastily repairing a giant irrigation break and says, "Willy, you're almost 50 and it's common knowledge that old superintendents lose the motivation that young superintendents have, that 'fire in the belly'."

*YOU MEAN LIKE STOMACH ULCERS?

"No, I'm referring to intestinal fortitude."

*PARASITES?  TAPE WORMS?

"Let me see your diploma."

Or when Hugh Jass, President of the Board, waves you down off your mower and says, "Hey Willy, we contacted an expensive special consultant from the UNGA Greens Section to advise you on that problem with #6 green.

*THE 75 PINE TREES THAT SHADE THE GREEN YEAR ROUND?  THE TREES YOU WON'T LET ME DROP?

"He thinks we should cut those trees down.  Why didn't you think of that?  Is that a gun?"

Fester:    "Since you can't find an assistant, I hired my nephew Dexter for you."

*I THOUGHT HE WENT OUT WEST TO BE A COWBOY.

"Horse allergy.  Dexter has a Doctorate in Applied Statistics and Data Collection.  He'll be perfect as your assistant."

*MR. BOYLE, IT TAKES YEARS TO LEARN GOLF OPERATIONS, EVEN WITH A TURF DEGREE.

"No worries, Dexter will have it all down in less than two weeks, and he can help with your data collection.  You need data."

*I HATE ANDROIDS.

Hugh:    "Willy, take a break from pulling cores, grab your crew and come over to my house.  We need some landscaping."

*MR. BOYLE, LAST TIME YOUR PIT BULL RIPPED A TIRE OFF A MOWER AND YOUR WIFE BIT ME.  I'VE STILL GOT A RESTRAINING ORDER ON HER.

"Quit stalling and get over to my house."

*NO.  I'M RETIRING SOON, PROBABLY AFTER LUNCH.  THESE ARE THE KEYS TO THE SHOP, AND HERE'S YOUR SADDLE.  LOOKS LIKE IT WILL FIT YOU JUST FINE.  HOW DO YOU FEEL ABOUT SPURS?

Statements like these, along with actions like those in the film "Too Much Time In The Saddle", often indicate upcoming career shifts.  Watch for these, in case it's time to ride off into the sunset.

Presented by DryJect.

Randy mentions the film, Chasing Rivermont, with Mark Hoban. We embedded it below:

Last year's film, "In The Back Of The Night"  was deemed too scary for normal golf folk, so we toned it down to just mildly terrifying this year.

NOTE:  Ludell, as presented here, is not real.  He is AI, which is part of the message of the film.

Scenario #1    You are repairing an irrigation break in the middle of the fairway on a crowded Friday afternoon in the heat of August.  Several greens are burning.  Golfers repeatedly demand that you move, as you are in great danger.  Do you:   

A. Move to the left rough and cower behind a tree.
B. Fearlessly remain in the center of the fairway and put on your special spandex shorts with the bull's eye target on the rear.
C. Jump in your Cushman and drive away.

ANSWER: If you chose A, report immediately to the pro shop for duty.  Choosing B indicates potential as a long term muni superintendent or a sales rep.  Did you choose C?  If so, you are probably pretty talented at deflecting responsibility while pretending you are actually doing something.  That's classic HR material.

Scenario #2   During a severe drought, with tyrannical water restrictions imposed by the government, you are caught by local officials in the act of hand watering bent. Do you:

A. Weep uncontrollably, drop to your knees and beg forgiveness.
B. Deny that you are watering, but continue watering in full view of the official.
C. Jump in Cushman and drive away.

ANSWER: Did you choose A?  If so, Customer Service is the job for you.  Choosing B indicates strong potential as a reporter for mainstream media.  C?  See above.

Scenario #3    After you and the crew complete a project wherein 20 pallets of sod was carefully placed between the ninth green and a greenside bunker, ropes and stakes installed and heavy watering finished, a foursome of drunken golfers drive through the ropes and slide into the bunkers.  They blame you and loudly demand you pull them out.  Do you:

A. Weep, comply with their orders and start all over.
B. Jump in Cushman.
C. Refuse to help, say harsh words indicating they have canine heritage, and when they attack with putters, grab a shovel from the Cushman and engage them using English broadsword techniques.

ANSWER: A.  You might make a good marshal.  B.  Apply for a GM job at a high end club.  C.   Answering C shows potential as an Equipment Tech, a Night Waterman, a Special Ops candidate or a writer for TurfNet.

Scenario #4    After installing 2mm choker layer in 18 new greens, you have some left over.  An unidentified crew member puts the extra 2mm sand in a bunker between the green and the lake on a Par 3.  This results in impossible bunker extraction shots and hilarious Category 5 temper fits.  (Sand wedges thrown in lake, caddies thrown in lake, guns drawn, etc.)  Do you:

A. Immediately classify bunker as GUR, offer free stuff to the victim and quickly select a random scapegoat crew member who is held by the collar and kicked repeatedly in the buttocks, until member is satisfied.
B. Tip off the biggest gambler in the club.
C. Set up lawn chairs across the lake and laugh until you wet your pants.

A.   Immediately classify bunker as GUR, offer free stuff to the victim and quickly select a random scapegoat crew member who is held by the collar and kicked repeatedly in the buttocks, until member is satisfied. 

ANSWER: A indicates you will rise to Top 5% superintendent job.  B means you belong in Logistics or some other phony baloney field like . . .  NFL referee.  C is proof of a very high level grasp of muni golf operations.

Scenario #4.5    You have recently become frustrated during interactions with club members and committees, owing to their refusal to refer to you as "Your Excellency."  They also stubbornly balked at erecting a statue of you, disagreed with your brilliant plan to replace the maintenance facility with a giant pyramid/tomb and wouldn't even consider renaming the course for you.  Do you:

A. Resign and become a golf course architect.
B. Resign and become the CEO of a big Golf Alphabet entity.
C. Write a tell-all book detailing the club's history of illicit romantic adventures, complete with photographs.

ANSWER: A.  The above behavior is often associated with latent closeted Golf Architect Symptoms.  B.  This is very difficult to attain as the success rate is low for those with actual golf course experience.  C typically results in the writer mysteriously vanishing . . . or becoming a TurfNet writer.

Scenario #5    You are entangled in a war with the clubhouse.  Clubhouse staff treats you like a peasant, contaminates your food, hits balls at you, spreads vicious rumors and forces you to clean up after their drunken debauchery.  The 80 year-old cart boy steps on your hand with steel spikes while you are working on a valve, sabotages your Cushman and accuses you of stealing his 12 year-old Scotch.  Do you:

A. Replace said Scotch with some other liquid.
B. Flood the driving range until his ball picker sinks to the axles.
C. Hammer the DRT rope stakes so deep into the tee that the geriatric cart boy has to perform a Dead Lift to extricate it.  During the previous night, you lined up a Toro 970 with the aforementioned rope stake, so that when initiated, it conducts an explosive irrigation enema so powerful as to move internal organs about, thus necessitating an ambulance.

ANSWER: If you chose All Of The Above, you are a normal Golf Course Superintendent who could have made it as a CIA contract employee... or a TurfNet writer.