Some people want a bodyguard. Others want a personal servant. After some deliberation, I’ve decided I’d like to hire a 60-year-old Brooklyn Jew as my assistant.

We started a round of golf on Sunday morning with three of us, so the course added a fourth to round out the group. We had the pleasure of meeting Augie, a 60-ish guy who seemed nice enough. He even put up with my golfing hackery - missing the shot off the tee, taking three swings to get out of a bunker, so on - so I figured he was a great addition to our crew. He told some jokes and made himself a member of the group.

The foursome ahead of us, however, was one of the slowest-playing groups I’ve ever seen. We’re talking wait-20-minutes-on-the-fairway slow. It didn’t take long for Augie to bring this fact to their attention: ‘Hey, you mind picking up the pace?’ And this is just after one of our group hit a ball directly into them without the requisite warning. The group, for some reason, was not amused.

This is why I want my very own Brooklyn Jew. Having grown up in the Midwest with a good deal of Catholic guilt, I find myself unable to tell people to piss off unless they’ve done something particularly egregious, like eat a baby. Or drive in the left lane.

Brooklyn Jews, I’ve discovered, don’t have that verbal filter. That couple that wandered past the ninth fairway on the way to their car? Yep, got an earful. I believe the words ‘are you deaf’ and ‘unfuckingbelievable’ and ’schumucks’ were used, all things I wanted to say … but deferred to the Brooklyn Jew.

While I can’t pay much, the position is now open.

As much as it pains me to say it, I might actually like the state of Tennesee.

I have no idea how this is happening. Based on my experiences last summer, I used to think the place was populated by twangy rednecks listening to country music. But on a business trip a few weeks back, I found that while that music part of the equation does ring true, the city was surprisingly cosmopolitan. I looked out my hotel window on a train station that would be at home in any European city and a Art Deco post office that had been converted to a museum (and the site of a photo shoot I held last year - reflective marble walls are not so good for glare-free images). Guided by a local, I drank at a bar with more than 150 beers on tap, including Boddingtons (!) and Smithwick’s (double !).

The key difference, I think, was that rather than hitting the touristy establishments - in all fairness, we did duck into Tootsie’s Orchid Lounge, where we were accosted by a prostitute posing as a plastic-surgery nurse - that this time we visited the less well-known honky-tonks.

And it was at one of these that I fell in love.

The reason is simple: One of the most angelically beautiful women I have ever seen was standing in the middle of the room, looking world-weary and smoking a cigarette. Then she got on stage and proceeded to play a little number they called ‘Bluegrass Swing.’ I could go into details about how the band was made up of three sisters and their shaggy-haired brother who didn’t seem to notice the exquisite attractiveness of their violinist, guitarist and vocalist and instead chatted among themselves while sometimes deciding to play songs, but suffice to say they were really, really good.

This picture was found on the Interweb with the caption ’she reminded me of a model who had been abducted from a lingerie shoot by radical hillbilly musicans.’ So true.

I reserve judgment on the rest of the state, but Nashville, you’re okay.

Given the amount of information we as modern consumers have available at nearly every moment of every day, there’s only one sure-fire way to disconnect from every other human being on the planet: Move into a new apartment.

Your mail doesn’t arrive for a few days. Same for your newspapers. Cable hookup is a far-off dream, and your bastard neighbors all have passwords on their wireless internet networks.

So, wrapped up in my own world of paint fumes and unopened boxes on Monday afternoon as I changed my living room from beige to a deep red, I apparently missed one of the largest political rallies in recent memory. And I had even been warned about the immigration march the night before, when a friend of mine - who owns a restaurant - said that his Mexican workers were instructed to show up the following day, that they would not be given special dispensation.

And I forgot all about it. I figure I’ll give myself through the weekend to stop being a hermit and to come out of my shell. Still a few days left …