Thursday means one thing to you and me: it’s bloggering time. It may also be clobberin’ time, if that’s more your thing, depending on how agitated I become after discussing golf. We’ll play it by ear. The heart of the matter is the irons are hot again, with a renewed sense of purpose, and this time we shall overcome. There was this idea of equanimity when we last discussed this, where I wanted the ability to play calmly and with poise, come what may. I still do, of course, but more to the point I just want to hit the goddamn ball, you know?
Here’s where I am. I’ve got all the basic equipment, less a 3-iron. Clocked in about 10 rounds, scoring anywhere from 125 to 150 to 170 to even greater depths of mediocrity. Corporate necessity is what’s driving me onto the green. I continue to find the effort-to-payoff ratio maddening. I’ve attended a single lesson at a respectable golf school, which seemed like a wise move initially, but ultimately proved injurious to my mojo. I’m back at square one, if I may triangulate this shit for you.
And the next step I want to take leads straight into the crucible. I plan on packing as many rounds as possible into the next few weeks, effectively supplanting professional instruction with green time and advice from peers. I’m still convinced I can reach proficiency without lessons. The same couple of hundred dollars that would’ve gone toward having some dude stand next to me at a range and dispense tips seems better spent on fees. Besides, did the very first golfer–architect of all that is unholy–benefit from formal guidance? Certainly not. He made this crap up.
I found these things on the range yesterday: an exasperating first half hour, then calluses, then progress. And when I left, I was ready for more. Even nature seems amenable to this. I stepped out of the office today into gorgeous weather–from clear skies to a pleasant breeze to the trace patches of snow salt on the ground, the scene before me was truly seasoned, top to bottom. The stage is set.
Boss G wondered over a nightcap yesterday what precisely would happen if someone were to punch an accountant, like, right in the face. She’d be in the black, I offered, eminently pleased that the ol’ gears were still churning with two mojitos under the belt. The mint-infused beverage remains the favorite, and instead of expanding the breadth of my palate I’ve decided to focus on the depth–specifically increasing the drink count without any ill effects. A second mojito is hardly noteworthy, I know, but for me it was a milestone, an invitation to test the limits of my liver and discover, perhaps, that three is an even better number than two.
The alcohol isn’t flowing for its own sake, of course, so much as a way to grease the wheels of high society. It’s a necessary component in the social plan, which you may recall dissolved in the ruinous wake of a Mick Jagger look-a-like, a mom, and an abortive night on the town. But my spirit is indomitable and undeterred I continue, compass firmly directed toward the local interactive marketing association. It seems to make sense: a chance to help build something new, to engage in a community, to push along the career.
Part of me is hesitant, weighed down by networking experiences in Chicago. Networking. There’s the word. I’m reminded of crowds, a hurried, empty feeling, and what really amounted to an explosion of business cards. It’s time for a clean slate, though. I’m hoping to dig through all this expected noise and find something meaningful, and to this end I’ve drawn a lot of inspiration from the family dog, newly adopted last year. He’s part German Shepherd–so am I–and whenever he lands in foreign territory, say the vet’s office, he simply hails each person, extends a paw, and shakes. Shake, shake, shake. He may have taught me everything I’ll need to know.
Earlier today I was discussing the Internet with Boo Bear–because deliberating about the Information Superhighway is what I do in the morning–and there were startling realizations. The wheel wasn’t reinvented, mind you, but there was insight into online burnout and why it happens. She was experiencing a general ennui bordering on light revulsion for Blogger, Facebook, the works.
I couldn’t imagine anyone finding Facebook revolting, so first I confirmed it wasn’t the hormones talking. Then, the theory: online burnout occurs when you constantly give with little in the way of offline return. Let’s break this down. On one end of the spectrum, you’ve got something like Hulu or YouTube, where you’re not giving at all. You’re in full consumption mode. Somewhere near the middle of the spectrum is online shopping, which sees you offering time and money for better prices, free shipping, and an actual product. It’s roughly breakeven. Way on the other end are the social conceits: your posts, your Tweets, your networks.
Here, there’s a real opportunity to expend effort tirelessly, ravenously so, and have all your sweat and tears fall into the void. Say you pound out a dozen blog posts, tweet all day about what you ate, add a dozen connections on LinkedIn, and friend your 8th grade algebra teacher on Facebook. All for what? What precisely happens in the real world? Likely nothing, which may explain why a phenomenon like this happens. Publish a blog post and you get to write another one. Up your friend count by one and you can up it by two. When a rat pushes a button, it expects food or a shock, not another five buttons to appear.
Certainly there’s the benefit of keeping in touch with people. But before the Internet, before phones became untethered conduits to the Internet, people were still able to maintain contact. There was mail. Wired telephones. Radio. Carrier pigeons. Telegram. Smoke signals! And you wonder whether people were any less satisfied without the ability to text, then whip out the Blackberry 20 minutes later, then Tweet, and then Skype and webcam later in the evening.
Call me a Luddite, but also label me a moderate. I don’t blow things up, for one thing, and I also like certain technologies, namely modern plumbing and air conditioning. If I were able to travel back to the late 19th century with these two things, I’d be golden. How to make a time machine without the aid of technology, though? I guess I’d pedal backwards on a bicycle, maybe attach a clock that ticks in reverse to the handlebars, kind of like an Amish flux capacitor.