Tuesday, August 26, 2008

Four courses at 18 holes apiece, countless expletives muttered, 15 or so range buckets, and six to seven balls lost, the grand summation of which describes my golf career to date. In another dimension, slathered across another blog, I’d be telling you how my white-hot hatred for the game has since softened, giving way instead to acceptance and enjoyment of the sport. As far as I’m concerned, that blog can stay in that dimension because my golf rage continues to burn resplendently, the only bright spot on these large stretches of green.

I shot a 137 this Saturday, a tangible improvement over previous scores, but in absolute terms just terrible. The goal is 100, the layman’s milestone, and I’m still resolved to reach it without professional help. Anything higher, especially to the tune of 37 extra strokes, is a real disappointment, because I’m not here to collect the “Most Improved” award or get a ribbon for mere participation. I want to win, which in this case means working toward an arbitrary number one slow, deliberate swing at a time. It’s maddening, a qualifiable grindstone for patience.

The media well at Hulu has dried up, with recent additions Jackass 2.5 and “select” episodes of The O.C. exhibiting equal levels of appeal. I’ve since turned to more succulent–and also legitimately free–programming to fill the void, and in the process it feels like I’m earning a master’s degree in appreciating offensive content.