The shame of it all: I was kicked off the La Jolla Country Club Golf Course this week.
To be precise, I was not allowed on the course, even though I was in a proper threesome headed by a club member in good standing.
My sin: Improper attire, i.e., violation of the ban on jeans.
The poobahs who run the course had already made one exception for our group and were not about to make a second.
The rule that keeps women off the course before 2 p.m. had been lifted to accommodate a woman in our group. Without even requiring her to cover her face with a veil!
The idea of lifting Two Rules In One Day was considered too much.
Alas, I had gotten so close to the La Jolla good life, only to have it snatched cruelly away. I had studied the manses on the surrounding hills. I felt kindly toward their affluent owners, big water-users all.
Without rich people, I figured, we wouldn’t have nice golf courses like this. I was being co-opted rapidly, and it felt good.
I took a few whacks at the driving range before being spotted by the dress-code police.
I feebly summoned up the Groucho Marx line about not wanting to be part of any club that would have me as a member. In a show of solidarity, my partners followed me into exile.
We caravaned to the municipal course at Torrey Pines, where the dress standards (recommendations, really) ask only that golfers not play in the nude.
For the record: I was wearing Sedgefield brand, stone-washed, more-white-than-blue jeans: retail $46. The garb of the off-duty jock, the rock star at ease, casual yet trendy; my wife bought them for me.
I had no idea my pants would be unacceptable. True, they’re not authentic golfing attire, but neither are they some ragged, paint-splattered, patches-on-the-butt pair of Levis.
I’m too old and middle-class to try that. It’s been 15 years since I wore a blue windbreaker to interview the Roman Catholic bishop of San Diego.
Don’t get me wrong: I’ve got no problem with the La Jolla Country Club setting dress rules and enforcing them vigorously. The fussier, the better.
A private club that allows jeans today might well succumb to Bermuda shorts tomorrow.
Of course, moving over to Torrey Pines was hardly cruel and unusual punishment. Hooray for the Pacific Ocean and the city Park and Recreation Department.
Late in the afternoon, the weather got cloudy and chilly.
The F-14’s from Miramar Naval Air Station stopped screaming overhead; the birds headed for Tijuana; squirrels left the fairways and burrowed in the canyons.
I was quite snug in my Sedgefield’s, Greenline Sport Pullover (35% cotton, 65% polyester) and Gant long-sleeve shirt. (Also, Jockey shorts and Puma socks).
I kept thinking about those guys at the La Jolla Country Club freezing their keisters off in their double-knits and Polo shirts.
The thought of it made me feel warm all over.
Red Tape Ties Up Yellow Ribbon
Less art, more news.
* Wars come and go, but bureaucracy is forever.
It took a month for Assemblywoman Carol Bentley (R-El Cajon) to get approval from the governor’s office and the State Police to have a large yellow ribbon put on the Capitol dome in honor of Operation Desert Storm.
The day the approval came through, the war ended.
* If Wednesday’s preview is any indication, August Wilson’s play about black anger, “Two Trains Running,” may have trouble with (mostly white) Old Globe audiences.
Applause was tepid. A goodly number of people left at intermission.
* So what are the favorite souvenirs of Moscow Circus stars during their San Diego run? Any trinket with the logo of San Diego radio station KGB.
* Political pros say the chances are increasing that State Sen. Lucy Killea (D-San Diego) will run for mayor next year.
* To help Sheriff Jim Roache, a San Diego public relations firm is polling 185 journalists on their opinions of the Sheriff’s Department under ex-Sheriff John Duffy.
Sample questions: What three adjectives would you use to describe the department? How often did you interview the sheriff?
* North County bumper sticker: A City Without Trees Isn’t Fit for a Dog.