Largo, Florida—A recent mid-winter golf weekend in Florida with his brothers and a few old friends was wrecked by the eccentricities of local author P.A.Kane (Leaving Jackson Wolf, Written In The Stars: The Book Of Molly).Donning his beret and shades Kane analysed and overthought everything from smoking cigars to making small wagers, to the course’s recycling policy and generally was a real pain in the ass to everyone with whom he had contact.
Before the round at Bardmoor Golf Club, long time friend Alvin Gryffindor generously passed out cigars to the group of twelve golfers and instead of quietly accepting the tobacco novelty Kane took the opportunity to rail on his brothers and friends as a bunch of elitist, white, middle management assholes. Fixing his gaze on the group dressed in their brightly colored golf shirts with their oversized drivers Kane said, “Look at all of you sucking on those cigars without even a thought for the Cuban migrant working twelve hour days for pennies so you can reassert your unearned white privilege. You make me sick.”
This opening salvo from Kane was met with eye rolls and rejoinders from his brothers telling him they had something for him to “suck on” and he should “shut the fuck up” or they were going to call his wife to set him straight.
Realizing he was bringing down the entire event Kane was able to remain quiet for a time, but after losing a nine dollar push on the sixth hole he began complain about the need to wager. “Why do we have to always measure ourselves in competition and try to exert our dominance? Are these dick measuring contests really necessary? Can’t we just enjoy this beautiful day and the fellowship of friends and sport for the sake of sport?” And, then looking around said, “I know all of you guys and there’s no shame in having a tiny penis. Really—it’s okay. Cast aside this never ending, soul crushing capitalistic need for competition and let us just be men enjoying men. ”
Gryffindor and their other friend Francis Paramecci, who had sort of lost touch with Kane in recent years and were reuniting for this golf weekend looked at him with certain amount of confusion. Seeing this confusion Kane’s younger brother Mike said, “Sorry, since he’s become the 1.5 millionth ranked author on Amazon he tends to be an insufferable ninnie.” The younger Kane then turned to his brother and again said, “Hey P.A., shut-the-fuck-up—you stupid tosser.”
Kane was able to remain relatively quiet for long stretches and mostly made indistinct guttural sounds to himself, but at the fifteenth hole he gave the golf cart girl an earful about Florida’s recycling policy as they just threw can after can of empty beer into the garbage. The girl told Kane, “I’m twenty years old and my job is to smile and get a big tip from you, not make environmental policy. Two Buds and two Coors Lights—that’ll be $16 and no, I don’t have change for a twenty,” she said with a broad grin taking his money.
Kane was able to keep his powder dry for the remainder of the round, but sitting outside with a beer as they tallied up the scores and bets he again lost it. His brother Peter turned up the volume on the loop of U2 songs he had playing the entire round. “Oh my god, how can you listen to this horrific dad-rock-bullshit. Every fucking song is the same shit about reaching for the fucking heavens and finding your higher self. Over and over and over they never find what they’re looking for and it sucks. Preachy anthems from self-aggrandizing Irish zillionaires who live in castles don’t inform or enlighten anything. How can you not see that? It sucks.”
Sweating profusely after this rant Kane excused himself to use the restroom. While he was gone everyone quickly got in their cars and left, forcing him to Uber it home.
The scene repeated itself the next day as Kane lectured on the New Green Deal, the continuing relevance of Bob Dylan and the proper way to enter and exit a golf cart, thus wrecking a second sunny, warm Florida golf day.
The group again ditched him when he went to the restroom after the round.
