Tuesday, September 9, 2008

Back. The traditional benefits of vacation continue to elude me, its smooth, relaxing contours little more than a pleasant fiction, and I unapologetically prefer it this way. For children of the Internet, especially those who toil for the Internet, unplugging completely is increasingly becoming an antiquated notion. Remember when you were a kid, first day at school after a long summer break, trying to will your atrophied fingers to hold a pen and write your name without the shakes? It’s kind of like that, except checking out for long stretches in this era invites hundreds, perhaps thousands of e-mails that threaten to snap your fingers clean off.

Now, I still despise cell phones and their ilk, which in my mind are grim templates that determine what shape cancer will form along your waist and groin area. An oncologist’s cookie cutter set, as it were, assuming you don’t drive into a ravine during a particularly engrossing conversation before then. I subscribe on a monthly basis, instead, to this idea of connecting on my own terms. Let’s call it My-Fi. Sure, you can have a computer nearby–with online capabilities, even!–but it must be attached to a table, rather than your ass.

I think it’s a fair compromise that still enables you to stem the tide of communication. How long this philosophy will last, however, remains to be seen. You can be sure as shit I won’t be Twittering anytime soon, of course. Come Thursday, I’d like to return to the topic of golf, though let it be known: it will be the last post about the accursed custom for a while.

Thursday, August 28, 2008

Secondhand Rants will return on Tuesday, September 09.

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.