Tuesday, January 6, 2009

Here’s a thought for you: eff golf. Or better yet, if you’ll excuse my French, fuck le golf. A few months ago, I solemnly vowed to resurrect the topic only if I reached my goal of 110, a pipe dream that now, two dozen posts later, seems like it should’ve instead been spent on mastering teleportation or firing laser beams from my eyes. Now, if the goal were revised to multiples of 110, we could very well celebrate at the clubhouse, but for now I’d like to take a break from the vile sport.

I realized something last Saturday as I mucked around a water trap on the 8th, new golf shoes collecting mud at a fantastic pace, trusty retriever flashing in the sun, the rage of a thousand angry old men encased in argyle pressing me onward. Why pay $40 to $70 to $350 in green fees, never mind the $120 for what must be the hideous lovechild of cleats and bowling shoes, plus $15 to $40 for balls you may as well toss into field and stream, when you could find just as much enjoyment in running barefoot across an interstate into an oncoming truck? For free?

Now, before you hold forth on the ample exercise possible on a 5-mile course, I’ll need you to specify precisely how often I should pump the golf cart accelerator to maximize caloric loss, or whether I should get a chili dog with relish for a quarter serving of vegetables. You want to walk five miles? Try the sidewalk. Want to spend $70 for the privilege of walking five miles? Get on the sidewalk, then throw your wallet down a sewer grate.

Certainly there’s some gratification to be had from hitting the ball correctly. But then what? I get to swing again. The carrot, in this case, is simply more of something I don’t want. The reward isn’t there. The health benefits, negligible. The cost, exorbitant. I was thinking about all these things on the 10th, which in golf parlance was shaped like a “dog leg.” Well, I’ll tell you where you can shove that dog leg. Around the same time, I also noticed I had lost my beloved 3-iron. That’s called “heartbreak” in the lingo of the green. Or providence.

Thursday, December 25, 2008

Secondhand Rants will return on Tuesday, January 06.

Tuesday, December 23, 2008

When we gather here next time, on an arbitrary date at an arbitrary hour about an arbitrary topic, count on this: there will be no arbitrary list of New Year’s resolutions. I gave up on them a long time ago, opting instead to launch a skill acquisition campaign back in February, but whatever you call it, it concluded as resolutions usually do–half-finished, neglected, a tattered version of itself coasting slowly into the hangar.

Certainly I’m pleased with the things I did learn: how to shoot guns, how to vote, how to not shoot guns after burning well past 110 on the 10th hole, how to start (and abandon) a new website, how to earn a black belt in Quit-Jitsu, 5th degree, by attending no more than two sessions of Krav Maga, and how to do these things against a historical backdrop where things seem to unravel on a daily basis.

And they may very well continue to unravel, if the analysts are correct, but survival can’t be the only theme for ’09. I don’t accept this. I don’t want to be a footnote in the void. There’s got to be more. I’m still enamored with this idea of creating one great work. Significant. Timeless. I admire how artists, developers, and musicians create meaningful product, seemingly out of the blue, and the optimist would tell me to learn how to design. Unlock the mysteries of programming. Take a few classes on composing. But I also believe talent counts for a great deal, and even if I sunk prodigious time and money into learning, say, how to design in Flash, the best I can hope to be is an imitation of someone who’s naturally good at it. That’s just not enough.

So no more skill acquisition campaigns. The idea for next year isn’t quantity. It’s to pay singular attention to that one thing–my one thing–and let it marinate until it’s ready. As for what it is exactly, well, I’m not certain yet. But I’m close. Let’s talk soon.