The driving range is apparently a completely different beast than the course proper, and it comes as no surprise this trivial newsflash landed just five days before tee time. It’s strange. Your dentist usually doesn’t jam the drill into a few healthy molars and your thigh before tending to the cavity, nor do electric chair operators send a couple sample shocks prior to performing the coup de grâce.
Only in golf, that vile sport perpetuated to crush the human spirit, would the practice area have the barest connection to the actual event. Standard operating procedure, it turns out, requires torture be prefaced with pre-torture. Before I discovered all this, though, I was content with progress from last weekend, when the Professor urged a return to the basics. I had cleared the chaff from my brain, regained some of the feel, and yet I’m cringing now when I think about Saturday. The stretch goal is to walk away with a 100, but multiples of this lofty number keep scrolling across my mind in ticker format.
Perhaps I’ll choose a more realistic target of 150, with the belief that a bar set low enough can only trip you, rather than slam you in the face. There’s a Greek myth about a poor bastard named Sisyphus who’s destined to roll the same damn boulder up a hill for all eternity, only to have it tumble back down again. Look closely enough at some of the paintings and etchings, and you’ll notice the rock may very well resemble a golf ball.
It feels like I could live for another century, and I wish these good vibes sprung from a healthy diet, regular exercise, and ample sleep. The real secret to longevity, though, is preservatives and lots of butter. I’ve been hitting the restaurants at an alarming frequency these past few weeks, which really did a number on my knuckles until I decided to actually walk into a few of these places and eat.
Terrible wordplay, I know, and I blame it on the large quantities of MSG. Right now, in fact, my vision is blurred from the increased sodium intake, even as the joints in my mouse hand–the last thing to go, of course–permanently lock into vestigial formation. Soon, in mere seconds, I will need to finish this post by rolling my head back and forth on my keyboard and hoping my nose will strike the correct letters.
During one of my gelatto-induced hazes, it occurred to me the entire restaurant experience, which by definition precludes Burger King and Golden Corral, hearkens to an earlier, more brutish time, when lords and ladies burdened themselves with sitting and being served. I understand paying for someone to prepare the entrée, because there is skill and artistry in cooking. Once the dish is ready, however, I’m perfectly content walking my ass over and collecting it and, heaven forbid, grabbing a pitcher and refilling my own drink from time to time.
Instead, we have this antiquated ritual where guests remain virtually sedentary, turning only to confirm or deny queries from eager staff. Isn’t there a middle ground that isn’t shaped like a Sizzler? I suppose fine dining is a fun experience once in a while, but at a certain point it feels like I need to choose a path: revert back to my simpler oatmeal-consuming existence, or travel further down the road and demand, wench, you fetch me some vittles for the coin I shall toss into yon satchel.
In a rare instance of face-to-face feedback affecting the online sphere, the Operator suggested many of my earlier contributions to the site were noncommittal. Safe. Waffling. A little more fire was needed. I thought her critique was valid, especially as traffic has just started to grow, and now would be the time to switch gears. Well, consider the tracks set and the fire brought.
Your time is precious, your movie time even more so, and to this point a review should serve as a canary into the media coal mine. We’re not here to tell you to sample every film that passes your way. Neither your wallet nor your calendar would allow for that. We’re here to offer you a few different voices and, assuming you find yourself regularly agreeing with one or the other, a kind of guide dog.
The danger here, however, is deciding to pull the trigger simply for the sake of pulling the trigger. Perhaps a middling rating is my true verdict, in which case I should cleave tightly to it. The real issue at stake, I believe, is self-censorship, and a pressing need for less of it. But enough about the site. We’ll discuss something else on Thursday.