Alcohol is a poison that has used modern advertising to positively associate itself with sports, romance, business and even fitness.  We are encouraged to drink and cheer on our favorite athletes, to yell at screens, to use beer as a post-workout supplement and we are told that romance is enhanced by bubbly alcohol . . . when the opposite is true.  Successful business meeting planners rely heavily on the 90 proof lubricant.

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.