Thursday, April 8, 2010

Augusta! Tomorrow. There will be more sunshine and fresh air absorbed in a single day than I traditionally collect in two to three months, and I am ready. I’m far less prepared, however, for when I must wake–5:15 A.M.–and that explains why we’re communing earlier tonight. 5:15. Five-fifteen. It is an unholy time of day, yet completely necessary to avoid rush-hour traffic, which Deadpan has generously offered to negotiate.

In our last road trip, his truck was essentially a country limousine that ferried us to a wholly different event catered to a wholly different crowd, for whom “72 holes” could only ever describe premium programming on Skinemax. But this time, the vehicle will shoulder an entirely different mantle, transforming into a bourgeoisie caravan bound for the mecca of golf.

It really is a Luddite’s paradise, upon reviewing the list of prohibited items, with every conceivable electronic device barred at the gates. This would be, like, my dream place, were it not for two problems. First, there is no air conditioning. And second, there is only golf. I’m conflicted here. Imagine, if you will, a starving fellow whose sole source of food is a cache of expired Luna Bars, and you will begin to understand my dilemma.

A few weeks ago, we discussed my main goal for the event: restraint, in the face of all that is buyable and edible. The quantity of trinkets and egg salad sandwiches may be too much to bear, but it is in the very act of bearing where the greatest value lies. I plan on traveling light, with naught but my wallet, eye drops, and Zyrtec in my pockets. We shall see if I succeed, and should I fail, well, all that egg salad isn’t going to eat itself.