The Tale of My Quest for John Daly’s CD

The tale of the quest, in which a hero travels great distances and overcomes many obstacles, is common to the literature of every nation; Homer’s Odyssey, King Arthur and the Holy Grail, Jason and the Argonauts, Hootie and the Blowfish–wait, they belong further down in this article.

Jason and the Argonauts:  Questing hero beset by cheesy movie monster.


When I first learned, several years ago, that bad boy golfer John Daly had recorded a country CD that included a song titled “All of My Exes Wear Rolexes,” I knew my life had reached a proverbial fork in the road; I could continue along the same dull, dead-end path I had followed to that point, or I could strike out in a new direction.  I resolved then and there that I would not rest until I owned a copy.

John Daly


In case you don’t know who John Daly is, he is a professional golfer, a long-ball hitter currently who once served a six-month suspension from the PGA Tour for the sort of ticky-tacky misconduct that would get you detention in high school–hitting a tee shot off a beer can, for example.  He is a larger-than-life figure, and when he goes off his diet, he’s larger than death, too.  For many men who have to go to work every day and follow orders, he’s an inspiration, the guy who gets to do things they never will.  As a business lawyer, I can assure you that women rarely come up to me and ask me to autograph certain popular female body parts.  Best I get is somebody asking me to notarize a bunch of documents.

Daly is known for his “non-country club appearance,” according to Wikipedia, most notably as depicted in an orange prison jumpsuit last year when he was taken into custody after passing out at a Hooters restaurant in Winston-Salem, N.C.

Orange is the new black.


John is a rebel in a sport whose most colorful participants have the personality of a National Honor Society Vice President.  I sympathize, because on the rare occasions when I try to play golf, I inevitably break some rule I’ve never heard of.

“You’re cute when you pass out!”


I once tried to take my kids golfing at a hotel course and was told we needed a separate bag for each player.  Since we only owned two sets of clubs, we couldn’t play.  Another time, we were refused access to a public course built on a landfill because my kids didn’t have on collared shirts.  “Back when this was a landfill,” I asked the pro (and I use the term advisedly), “did the garbage men have to wear collared shirts when they came to dump a load?”

Question Mark & the Mysterians:  A crappy band, not a quest tale.


So John Daly is my kind of guy.  And “All of My Exes Wear Rolexes”–referring to John’s tendency to acquire and then lose wives and money like a salamander shedding its skin–had to be worth the price of the CD all by itself.  The CD features Hootie & the Blowfish on a couple of songs, I learned after some research, so we’ve tied up that loose end now.

And so began my quest.  I searched CD Wherehouse,,–nothing.  I looked in new and used record stores–nada.  I checked eBay–zip.

Young Man in Curlers (not me), by Diane Arbus


I placed requests with several music search services and waited by the computer, my hair up in curlers, for the email that never came.  Until last week.

If there is a unit of time shorter than a nanosecond, I beat it in replying to the question “Do you still want to purchase?” Yes, for God’s sake–and send it rush!

When the cardboard CD package arrived this week, I called up my sister, a real golfer who appreciates tacky behavior by public figures as much as I do.

“You’ll never believe what I just got,” I said breathlessly.  “John Daly’s CD–It’s got ‘All of My Exes Wear Rolexes’ on it!”

“What’s the big deal?” she asked.  “You can listen to it for free on  How much did you pay for it?”

“Never mind.”

Golf Tournament to End Golf a Hit With Real Sports Fans

PLAISTOW, New Hampshire.  It’s Monday, the day when golf courses are traditionally closed but available for charity golf tournaments, and the Dun Roamin course here is the scene of a recent entrant in a crowded field that fights ailments ranging from cancer to Osgood Schlatter’s Disease.  “We’re the new kid on the block,” says Tyler Nuzum, a left-handed pitcher with the local minor league baseball team, the Plaistow Road Kill.  “We’ve barely got our legs under us, but we’re gonna put on the Golf Tournament to End All Golf Tournaments.”

“It’s for a good cause.”

When he is asked whether that goal isn’t a stretch for a start-up organization, Nuzum hastens to make his meaning clear.  “I don’t mean we’re going to be the biggest or the best,” he says as he checks in a foursome sponsored by Al’s Tire & Battery.  “I mean we want to end golf before it destroys any more young lives.”

“Do I have to pitch to myself . . . again?”

As a boy Nuzum loved baseball but grew up without brothers to play with and a father who wanted to spend his weekends on the golf course.  “I didn’t want to play with my sisters because they threw like girls,” he recalls with a lump in his throat.  “They said it was because they were throwing left-handed but I didn’t care, they still threw like left-handed girls.”

Left alone to brood, Nuzum conceived an intense dislike for golf which inspired him to start the Good Walk Spoiled Foundation, which raises money to help “golf orphans,” the term used by pediatricians to refer to children abandoned by fathers or sometimes both parents in favor of a game that normally consumes the better part of a weekend day.

“C’mon kiddo–you’ll make it up on the back nine.”

“Golf orphans have difficulty forming stable relationships in later life,” according to Dr. Kent Shays, a specialist with a schedule so busy he will only treat children from families where both spouses have a five handicap or better.  “Their parents try to pacify them with pizza-flavored goldfish from country club bars, or worse, broken tees,” he says shaking his head.  “I just met with a mother who tried to buy her kid off with the maraschino cherries from her whiskey sours.”

“Well, I’d better get home and play with Tina and Gigi and what’s-his-name.”

Nuzum’s foundation, named after Mark Twain’s tongue-in-cheek definition of golf, arranges playdates for abandoned golf children, provides medical assistance to kids overcome by boredom watching the Buick Open, and in particularly egregious cases goes into court to remove children from homes where golf predominates over more important matters such as schoolwork, sugary breakfast cereals and Saturday morning cartoon shows.  “We’re not here to replace a crappy family life,” Nuzum says by way of reassurance to this reporter.  “We’re here to bring them a totally new crappy life, just without the golf.”