California Views

January 1st, 2026

Happy New Year, everybody!

There’s something about rolling back into California that feels like plugging my soul into a charger. The air’s cleaner, the views are showing off, and even the seagulls look like they’ve got better posture. I’m back in the Golden State to ring in the New Year the proper way: with sunshine, bad decisions, and absolutely zero respect for my own golf game.

Tomorrow I’m heading to Pebble Beach Golf and Country Club to embarrass myself on one of the prettiest pieces of real estate God ever showed off. I’ve got a couple of locals joining me, along with my old buddy Barry Weiss—yes, that Barry. If you’ve never played golf with Barry, imagine a friendly tornado wearing sunglasses that occasionally offers you a cigar and a deeply questionable piece of advice. The man could talk a bird out of flying.

Before I start blading wedges into the Pacific, I’ve been “handicapping” an NCAA game all morning—Texas Tech vs. Oregon—which is a polite way of saying I stared at numbers, squinted, and pretended I was doing math. According to BookMakersReview odds, the Ducks are -2.5. My heart says, “Quack quack, take Oregon.” My billfold says, “Mr. Pat, you are not a financial advisor—take the points and stop acting like you’re in a movie.”

So naturally, I’m doing what any responsible adult would do: pulling for Oregon, but probably taking the points like a man who’s been humbled by life, gravity, and three-putts.

Now the NFL… did you see this story? “Miami going with Ewers at QB.” WOW. I blinked twice like my brain needed a software update. What was he—a sixth-round pick? Or did Miami just spin a wheel labeled “Quarterbacks That Make Everyone Text Their Friends”?

I’ll have more on that game soon. But right now, I’ve got a real crisis on my hands.

I need to practice chipping and putting, because if I show up at Pebble Beach rusty, my golf buddies are going to eat me for lunch. Not metaphorically, either. Pebble Beach locals smell fear. They can sense a man who “used to be good” from two fairways away. And if Barry starts heckling me on the greens, I may be forced to fake a hamstring injury like a European soccer player.

Anyway—new year, new adventures, same old Mr. Pat.

If you need me, I’ll be on a practice green somewhere, arguing with a golf ball like it owes me money.

— Mr. Pat