(Congratulations to my friend, Pia, from Courting Destiny. She is now blogging for Psychology Today. And you can read her first post here. It makes me proud to see a former Roast-A-Bone host going on to bigger things.)
The sun came out Saturday. It was 72 degrees here. And just like that -- although the calendar wouldn't agree for three more days -- for me, January was over. Thus ending what in a hundred years will more than likely be referred to as my blue period, which basically amounted to two posts.
I don't know why I let the season come and conquer me. But it's all right now. There's not spring, but there's the promise of spring, and that's enough.
This weekend was my long-awaited-though-sometimes-uncertain return to the land of the living. I did things this weekend I thought I'd forgotten how to do, like shower on a Saturday.
Sister Bone, Nephew Bone and I went to the Bama basketball game Saturday night. Bama is not exactly known as a basketball school, but the team is having a pretty good season, so it was nice to see the game was sold out. They won the game comfortably, 70-46, over LSU. For me, any night's a good night in Tuscaloosa -- the atmosphere, the history, the Taco Casa! Just knowing that for one night you are in the same city as Nick Saban somehow makes everything right with the world.
I believe it was the wise King Solomon who wrote, "Train up a child in the way he should go, and when he is old he will not depart from it." At supper, Nephew Bone pointed to the "A" on the Taco Casa cup and said, "Bama." It's nice to know the hours I spent repeating "Roll Tide" and "Bama" to him while everyone else was trying to get him to say "mama" and "dada" paid off.
I golfed with the Darryls on Sunday afternoon. That was a dream come true. Literally. Except that we did get to finish the round. We golfed horribly, but who really cares. Balls and clubs can be replaced. Pride can be restored, theoretically. And as I like to say, 'tis better to have golfed and failed than to never have golfed at all.
In one final bit of big news, I start guitar lessons tomorrow! I'm kind of excited. Dad has been trying to get me to learn to play for, oh, the past twenty years or so. I figure I may as well give it a shot. Also, he said he would pay for the lessons. Not that you should think my parents still pay for everything, or give me a weekly allowance. Because they don't. And they haven't since I turned 35.
Beyond that, Wednesday is National Signing Day. I'm contemplating taking off of work for that. And of course Sunday, as most everyone aware I'm sure, is the highlight of the year for Roman Numerals.
Then comes the roughly six-week long period of time I like to refer to as sports purgatory. But we'll fall into that deep, yawning chasm when we come to it.
"And I'm looking to the sky to save me, looking for a sign of life..."
Showing posts with label golf. Show all posts
Showing posts with label golf. Show all posts
Monday, January 31, 2011
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Dreaming in color, living in black and white
To say I'm not doing much these days would be a gross understatement. Or should it be overstatement? Whichever, it's definitely gross. The Januarys are in full force around here. I do feel inspired sometimes. But if I wait an hour, it usually passes.
Meanwhile, I've been having wildly vivid dreams lately. One of my very recurring dreams is that I'm golfing but I can never quite get the ball teed up just right. It's too close to me, then too far away, then it falls off the tee, and on and on. It's extremely frustrating.
So then I try and think what am I frustrated about. Life? Love? Writing? That Matchbox Twenty won't put out a new album? Probably the last one.
I have been thinking a bit about turning thirty-eight next month. And I have decided I'm going to go ahead and do it. I mean, when I considered the other options, the choice was pretty clear.
Seriously though, at first glance, thirty-eight seems so benign. Then I think about the whole thirty-nine-and-holding thing, and suddenly thirty-eight feels like the last year of... something. But I am fairly certain no one wants me to get into any sort of deep self-analysis on these feelings, least of all me.
Meanwhile, the wildly vivid dreams continue -- about golf, ex-girlfriends, even Family Feud, though not all in the same dream. In the Family Feud dream, the entire facade of the house across the street was one gigantic Family Feud board. And the guy who lives there was asking me survey questions. Unfortunately, Richard Dawson wasn't in the dream, so that was a little disappointing as you might expect.
A couple of nights ago I had a bit of a different golf dream. The Darryls and I were three holes from the end of our round when one of the course workers rode up on a golf cart and said all the carts had to be in immediately because they were going home for the evening. After much discussion, I finally convinced him to take my cart and my bag and just let me keep 3 or 4 clubs out so I could finish the round, and I would pick up my bag at his house later.
However, the Darryls had continued playing and were now a couple of holes ahead of me. And when I started trying to play again, I was back to the recurring dream situation and couldn't get my ball to stay on the tee.
OK, so they weren't very wild, but they were vivid, darn it! I'm open to interpretation. And interpretations. Other than I suck at golf and play way too much Family Feud online. I already know this.
I have surmised that my subconscious self is living the life my January conscious self can't. Well, note to subconscious Bone: Enjoy it while you can, buddy boy. February's coming, and conscious me will be back to normal, whatever that is.
I may even attempt to socialize with the other humans.
"Don't tell me how to be, 'cause I like some suffering. Don't ask me what I need. I'm just fine here finding me..."
Meanwhile, I've been having wildly vivid dreams lately. One of my very recurring dreams is that I'm golfing but I can never quite get the ball teed up just right. It's too close to me, then too far away, then it falls off the tee, and on and on. It's extremely frustrating.
So then I try and think what am I frustrated about. Life? Love? Writing? That Matchbox Twenty won't put out a new album? Probably the last one.
I have been thinking a bit about turning thirty-eight next month. And I have decided I'm going to go ahead and do it. I mean, when I considered the other options, the choice was pretty clear.
Seriously though, at first glance, thirty-eight seems so benign. Then I think about the whole thirty-nine-and-holding thing, and suddenly thirty-eight feels like the last year of... something. But I am fairly certain no one wants me to get into any sort of deep self-analysis on these feelings, least of all me.
Meanwhile, the wildly vivid dreams continue -- about golf, ex-girlfriends, even Family Feud, though not all in the same dream. In the Family Feud dream, the entire facade of the house across the street was one gigantic Family Feud board. And the guy who lives there was asking me survey questions. Unfortunately, Richard Dawson wasn't in the dream, so that was a little disappointing as you might expect.
A couple of nights ago I had a bit of a different golf dream. The Darryls and I were three holes from the end of our round when one of the course workers rode up on a golf cart and said all the carts had to be in immediately because they were going home for the evening. After much discussion, I finally convinced him to take my cart and my bag and just let me keep 3 or 4 clubs out so I could finish the round, and I would pick up my bag at his house later.
However, the Darryls had continued playing and were now a couple of holes ahead of me. And when I started trying to play again, I was back to the recurring dream situation and couldn't get my ball to stay on the tee.
OK, so they weren't very wild, but they were vivid, darn it! I'm open to interpretation. And interpretations. Other than I suck at golf and play way too much Family Feud online. I already know this.
I have surmised that my subconscious self is living the life my January conscious self can't. Well, note to subconscious Bone: Enjoy it while you can, buddy boy. February's coming, and conscious me will be back to normal, whatever that is.
I may even attempt to socialize with the other humans.
"Don't tell me how to be, 'cause I like some suffering. Don't ask me what I need. I'm just fine here finding me..."
Tuesday, March 02, 2010
Men will be boys
It snowed this morning. In Alabama. In March. I don't think there's any doubt we are headed for 2012. I never saw the movie, but as I understand it 2012 is a year the ancient Mayans predicted would occur a couple of years from now. It is going to be like Y2K on crack. And there will be mayhem. And Prince will write a song about it. It is our destiny. It is inevitable. And there is nothing we can do to stop it. (Which, I believe, would be the definition of inevitable.)
In other slightly less doom-impending news, I nearly relapsed this weekend.
After venturing out Friday night only long enough to get some catfish, Saturday found me in the familiar position of wanting to spend the entire weekend in Hermitville. This desire was intensified exponentially by SoapNet airing a 90210 marathon during the period of time in question.
It wasn't even the good 90210s, either. It was after Dylan and Brenda left. Jim and Cindy had moved to Hong Kong. Kelly Kapowski had joined the cast and everybody was pretty much living, partying and/or spending the night at Casa Walsh. Still, that theme song gets me every time. Duh-duh-duh-duh, duh-duh-duh-duh, chh-chh...
So there I was, having the classic devil-on-one-shoulder-angel-on-the-other moment. Active social butterfly angel was imploring, "Get up you lazy schmuck. It's a beautiful day outside. You should go and play golf." Meanwhile, hermit devil was doing his best to lure me back into the throes of hermit-itis: "Stay in bed. You love it here. You can golf anytime. How often does SoapNet have a 90210 marathon? Besides, they might go back and show an old episode like Donna Martin Graduates and you wouldn't wanna miss that, would you?"
As convincing as hermit devil was, after two-and-a-half episodes I'd had my fill of Donna and David's incessant bickering. So I decided to call LJ and we went and golfed. It was fifty degrees and sunny out, but the wind chill must have been about four. I had no idea fifty degrees could feel so cold!
It soon became apparent that my carefully chosen ensemble of khaki pants and thin black mock turtleneck pullover was not going to provide the warmth I desired. One of my fingers did that losing-color-and-going-numb thing from holes three through eight. But after that, the feeling returned, my frostbite fears subsided and it was fun. And for it being my first time golfing this decade, I played OK. I only lost two balls.
And one club.
That's right, upstanding citizen and otherwise mild-mannered blogger Bone lost a nine iron in the lake, accidentally. And by lost, I mean chucked. And by accidentally, I mean sort of on purpose. Cringe.
In my defense, the club did not appear to be working properly. It was supposed to hit the ball high into the air landing on the green. Instead, it scooted the ball along the ground about forty yards. I just as well have hit it with a log.
Oh, I couldn't be more embarrassed. When I wrote the Nine iron over the starboard side post three years ago, I never dreamt it would become a self-fulfilling prophecy.
Maybe the anger management classes will be on the same night and just down the hall from the 90210 support group.
"I didn't go to boarding schools. Preppy girls never looked at me. Why should they? I ain't nobody, got nothing in my pocket. Beverly Hills, that's where I want to be..."
In other slightly less doom-impending news, I nearly relapsed this weekend.
After venturing out Friday night only long enough to get some catfish, Saturday found me in the familiar position of wanting to spend the entire weekend in Hermitville. This desire was intensified exponentially by SoapNet airing a 90210 marathon during the period of time in question.
It wasn't even the good 90210s, either. It was after Dylan and Brenda left. Jim and Cindy had moved to Hong Kong. Kelly Kapowski had joined the cast and everybody was pretty much living, partying and/or spending the night at Casa Walsh. Still, that theme song gets me every time. Duh-duh-duh-duh, duh-duh-duh-duh, chh-chh...
So there I was, having the classic devil-on-one-shoulder-angel-on-the-other moment. Active social butterfly angel was imploring, "Get up you lazy schmuck. It's a beautiful day outside. You should go and play golf." Meanwhile, hermit devil was doing his best to lure me back into the throes of hermit-itis: "Stay in bed. You love it here. You can golf anytime. How often does SoapNet have a 90210 marathon? Besides, they might go back and show an old episode like Donna Martin Graduates and you wouldn't wanna miss that, would you?"
As convincing as hermit devil was, after two-and-a-half episodes I'd had my fill of Donna and David's incessant bickering. So I decided to call LJ and we went and golfed. It was fifty degrees and sunny out, but the wind chill must have been about four. I had no idea fifty degrees could feel so cold!
It soon became apparent that my carefully chosen ensemble of khaki pants and thin black mock turtleneck pullover was not going to provide the warmth I desired. One of my fingers did that losing-color-and-going-numb thing from holes three through eight. But after that, the feeling returned, my frostbite fears subsided and it was fun. And for it being my first time golfing this decade, I played OK. I only lost two balls.
And one club.
That's right, upstanding citizen and otherwise mild-mannered blogger Bone lost a nine iron in the lake, accidentally. And by lost, I mean chucked. And by accidentally, I mean sort of on purpose. Cringe.
In my defense, the club did not appear to be working properly. It was supposed to hit the ball high into the air landing on the green. Instead, it scooted the ball along the ground about forty yards. I just as well have hit it with a log.
Oh, I couldn't be more embarrassed. When I wrote the Nine iron over the starboard side post three years ago, I never dreamt it would become a self-fulfilling prophecy.
Maybe the anger management classes will be on the same night and just down the hall from the 90210 support group.
"I didn't go to boarding schools. Preppy girls never looked at me. Why should they? I ain't nobody, got nothing in my pocket. Beverly Hills, that's where I want to be..."
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Ye olde dog days
Apparently, I mention the dog days of summer in a post every July. Last year, I tied it in to National Blog Something That's In Draft Week, or NaBloSoThaDraWe as you most likely know it. I may still have to do that in the next few days. After all, I'm nothing if not cyclical...
I always figured the phrase "dog days of Summer" had something to do with how dogs mostly just laid around in the shade or under the porch looking for relief from the heat. Thankfully, in these progressive times, we have Wikipedia. Else I may have gone my entire life thinking that and thus never knowing the true origin of "dog days."
According to Wikipedia, it has something to do with Sirius--not that satellite radio people--also known as the Dog Star. In olden times, people would sacrifice a brown dog at the beginning of dog days. Why brown? Well, that's what I'd like to know. Unfortunately, Wikipedia didn't say, which pretty much can be taken to mean no one alive today knows the answer.
On a related note, we had a brown dog when I was growing up. Just wandered up one day, which is how we got most of our pets. I named it Brown Dog--there was sort of a clever descriptiveness to it, I thought. We also had a pet named Whiskas. It was a cat. But I digress.
While sources differ on the exact dates of the dog days, they roughly run from early July through mid-to-late-August in the northern hemisphere on planet Earth. And so, these are they.
Maybe they also could be referred to as the Blog Days of Summer. Because it seems that while physically I've been doing lots, my mind has mostly been lying around under the porch hiding from the sun. Thus resulting in an even greater lack of blog posts than usual.
I figured that I would try and catch you up on all that's been going on in Bonetropolis the past couple of weeks with a series of bullet points. But then I thought maybe that sounded too violent, so I'll just continue in paragraph form.
Last week was the birthday of someone very important to my existence: he who bore me. We commemorated with dinner at a Mexican restaurant. Then Dad regaled us with tales of what it was like when man landed on the moon, which occurred the day before his birthday, coincidentally.
Sunday, they left on a two-week cross country trip to the Grand Canyon. Currently, they are in Flagstaff, Arizona. He called Monday from near Dallas. It was raining. "Don't you have some way of checking the weather radar on the Internet?" As if I know a secret trick no one else knows.
But I suppose it's kinda nice to feel like he still needs me now and then. They grow up so fast.
Speaking of, Nephew Bone has been doing well. He is walking upright with the skill of someone six weeks his elder. He'll be a year old three weeks from today! And I thought time flew before. Oh, and he also swallowed a leaf. Don't ask how we know.
Meanwhile, yours truly has just been doing the usual--work, sleep, running, pondering my eventual retirement from competitive Scrabble, and of course, golf. This past weekend, I came within 18 inches of my first ever hole-in-one. That would have been the single greatest moment in my life--not to be confused with the greatest nine minutes of my life.
So, that's the story from Bonetropolis. The dog days are almost over. Hopefully, my mind will soon crawl out from 'neath the porch of no ideas to once again frolic through effervescent fields of minutiae and skinny dip in streams of hilarity.
"Babies squalled as August crawled past old folks in the shade. The weather vane was stuck, and White Oak Creek would drop, when dog days came around..."
I always figured the phrase "dog days of Summer" had something to do with how dogs mostly just laid around in the shade or under the porch looking for relief from the heat. Thankfully, in these progressive times, we have Wikipedia. Else I may have gone my entire life thinking that and thus never knowing the true origin of "dog days."
According to Wikipedia, it has something to do with Sirius--not that satellite radio people--also known as the Dog Star. In olden times, people would sacrifice a brown dog at the beginning of dog days. Why brown? Well, that's what I'd like to know. Unfortunately, Wikipedia didn't say, which pretty much can be taken to mean no one alive today knows the answer.
On a related note, we had a brown dog when I was growing up. Just wandered up one day, which is how we got most of our pets. I named it Brown Dog--there was sort of a clever descriptiveness to it, I thought. We also had a pet named Whiskas. It was a cat. But I digress.
While sources differ on the exact dates of the dog days, they roughly run from early July through mid-to-late-August in the northern hemisphere on planet Earth. And so, these are they.
Maybe they also could be referred to as the Blog Days of Summer. Because it seems that while physically I've been doing lots, my mind has mostly been lying around under the porch hiding from the sun. Thus resulting in an even greater lack of blog posts than usual.
I figured that I would try and catch you up on all that's been going on in Bonetropolis the past couple of weeks with a series of bullet points. But then I thought maybe that sounded too violent, so I'll just continue in paragraph form.
Last week was the birthday of someone very important to my existence: he who bore me. We commemorated with dinner at a Mexican restaurant. Then Dad regaled us with tales of what it was like when man landed on the moon, which occurred the day before his birthday, coincidentally.
Sunday, they left on a two-week cross country trip to the Grand Canyon. Currently, they are in Flagstaff, Arizona. He called Monday from near Dallas. It was raining. "Don't you have some way of checking the weather radar on the Internet?" As if I know a secret trick no one else knows.
But I suppose it's kinda nice to feel like he still needs me now and then. They grow up so fast.
Speaking of, Nephew Bone has been doing well. He is walking upright with the skill of someone six weeks his elder. He'll be a year old three weeks from today! And I thought time flew before. Oh, and he also swallowed a leaf. Don't ask how we know.
Meanwhile, yours truly has just been doing the usual--work, sleep, running, pondering my eventual retirement from competitive Scrabble, and of course, golf. This past weekend, I came within 18 inches of my first ever hole-in-one. That would have been the single greatest moment in my life--not to be confused with the greatest nine minutes of my life.
So, that's the story from Bonetropolis. The dog days are almost over. Hopefully, my mind will soon crawl out from 'neath the porch of no ideas to once again frolic through effervescent fields of minutiae and skinny dip in streams of hilarity.
"Babies squalled as August crawled past old folks in the shade. The weather vane was stuck, and White Oak Creek would drop, when dog days came around..."
Friday, June 19, 2009
Of hailstorms and June weddings
We've been having the sort of weather the past few days that I suppose Alabama, and the Deep South in general, is famous for. The sort of weather that makes people say things like "it's not the heat, it's the humidity." I rather like it. Highs have been in the mid-to-upper-90's all week. You wear the humidity like a heavy coat. I can't wait for summer.
Earlier this week, LJ and I unintentionally reenacted The Perfect Storm, except in a car instead of a boat. We were golfing Monday when it began to pour on the 17th hole. It was also thundering a bit, but being the true golfers we are--and let's face it, not having that much to lose--we finished the round.
On the way back to LJ's, they were giving thunderstorm and tornado warnings on the radio. The rain intensified to the point that I was having trouble seeing. I distinctly recall the phrase "Where is the road?" being used at least once, and also running over my mental checklist of what to do if I spotted a tornado--which pretty much consists of halting the vehicle and jumping into a ditch. At one point I may or may not have been cruising down the turn lane for an indefinite period time, but I'm pretty sure I was.
Then it started hailing, like I have never seen in all my 36 years of mostly unfulfilled potential. We were still probably 4 or 5 miles from LJ's and by this time, traffic had slowed to like 20 miles per hour. My vehicle was getting absolutely pelted, so I decided to try and find some sort of shelter. I noticed a couple of cars had pulled into a church parking lot and parked underneath trees, so I joined them.
Didn't help.
The sky was angry that day, my friends. For about five minutes solid we sat there 'neath a cedar tree, listening to and watching quarter-to-ping-pong-ball-sized hail bounce off the hood. It felt like the windshield was going to shatter at any second. We both agreed we had never seen anything like it. I may or may not have been cursing the entire time, but most likely was.
Driving home that night, there were widespread power outages. It was quite eerie to be driving along with no street lights or lights from houses. At one point, I saw what looked to be several flashlights up ahead in the otherwise pitch blackness. As I was trying to figure out what was going on, I nearly crashed into two trees that were completely blocking the road, forcing me to backtrack and take another route home.
Tuesday morning shed light on even more destruction. Trees were down all over town. On my way to work, I saw several that had fallen onto houses. By that time, I felt pretty lucky to just have some scratches and dents on my car.
Speaking of harrowing experiences, my old roomate is getting married this weekend. And you guessed it, I'm in the wedding. This despite the fact that I never see him and we talk maybe once year. Those are the best.
This will be my 5th or 6th wedding to be in. You know what they say: Always a groomsman, never any cute single bridesmaids.
For some reason, someone with apparently no appreciation for convenience and common sense came up with the brilliant idea that the groomsmen would buy their suits for this wedding instead of renting them.
Wha-? Why? I'm befuddled.
First of all, no guy wants to be in a wedding, ever, no matter what he tells you. I mean, sure it's a great honor. (Not really.) But at least when we do find ourselves in this unappealing situation, the tuxedo rental makes things as painless as possible.
The tux is the prostitute of the fashion world. It's convenient and relatively hassle-free. There's no commitment. You know where to find them and you know what you're getting. You pay a hundred bucks, use it for a few hours and return it, barely worse for the wear. So why would anyone want to complicate the process?
On top of that, come to find out that we're not even getting the whole ensemble. We have to furnish our own white dress shirt, socks, and black shoes. And there's no vest or anything. So basically, I'm buying a jacket, pants, and a tie. And I'm still not 100% sure we get to keep the tie.
The "logic" I was given behind this idea was that it would be better to pay a little more and be able to keep the suit than pay a hundred bucks and have to return it. Well, riddle me this: Where else am I ever going to wear this suit?
Every wedding has a different, specific style of tux. The chances of this suit matching the tuxes for any future wedding I may be in are astronomical at best. I'd have a better chance of being killed in a hailstorm. Actually, in light of recent events, I would like to redact that last sentence.
And finally, since he was my roomate for a year, and since I most likely won't beallowed asked to speak at the wedding/reception/after party, I would like to impart a bit of advice. Actually, you know what, let's make it a toast.
To the blushing bride: Don't ever leave any food sitting anywhere that it might be found unless you are OK with it being eaten.
Hear, hear!
"Your best friend Harry has a brother Larry. In five days from now he's gonna marry. He's hopin' you can make it there if you can, 'cos in the ceremony you'll be the best man..."
Earlier this week, LJ and I unintentionally reenacted The Perfect Storm, except in a car instead of a boat. We were golfing Monday when it began to pour on the 17th hole. It was also thundering a bit, but being the true golfers we are--and let's face it, not having that much to lose--we finished the round.
On the way back to LJ's, they were giving thunderstorm and tornado warnings on the radio. The rain intensified to the point that I was having trouble seeing. I distinctly recall the phrase "Where is the road?" being used at least once, and also running over my mental checklist of what to do if I spotted a tornado--which pretty much consists of halting the vehicle and jumping into a ditch. At one point I may or may not have been cruising down the turn lane for an indefinite period time, but I'm pretty sure I was.
Then it started hailing, like I have never seen in all my 36 years of mostly unfulfilled potential. We were still probably 4 or 5 miles from LJ's and by this time, traffic had slowed to like 20 miles per hour. My vehicle was getting absolutely pelted, so I decided to try and find some sort of shelter. I noticed a couple of cars had pulled into a church parking lot and parked underneath trees, so I joined them.
Didn't help.
The sky was angry that day, my friends. For about five minutes solid we sat there 'neath a cedar tree, listening to and watching quarter-to-ping-pong-ball-sized hail bounce off the hood. It felt like the windshield was going to shatter at any second. We both agreed we had never seen anything like it. I may or may not have been cursing the entire time, but most likely was.
Driving home that night, there were widespread power outages. It was quite eerie to be driving along with no street lights or lights from houses. At one point, I saw what looked to be several flashlights up ahead in the otherwise pitch blackness. As I was trying to figure out what was going on, I nearly crashed into two trees that were completely blocking the road, forcing me to backtrack and take another route home.
Tuesday morning shed light on even more destruction. Trees were down all over town. On my way to work, I saw several that had fallen onto houses. By that time, I felt pretty lucky to just have some scratches and dents on my car.
Speaking of harrowing experiences, my old roomate is getting married this weekend. And you guessed it, I'm in the wedding. This despite the fact that I never see him and we talk maybe once year. Those are the best.
This will be my 5th or 6th wedding to be in. You know what they say: Always a groomsman, never any cute single bridesmaids.
For some reason, someone with apparently no appreciation for convenience and common sense came up with the brilliant idea that the groomsmen would buy their suits for this wedding instead of renting them.
Wha-? Why? I'm befuddled.
First of all, no guy wants to be in a wedding, ever, no matter what he tells you. I mean, sure it's a great honor. (Not really.) But at least when we do find ourselves in this unappealing situation, the tuxedo rental makes things as painless as possible.
The tux is the prostitute of the fashion world. It's convenient and relatively hassle-free. There's no commitment. You know where to find them and you know what you're getting. You pay a hundred bucks, use it for a few hours and return it, barely worse for the wear. So why would anyone want to complicate the process?
On top of that, come to find out that we're not even getting the whole ensemble. We have to furnish our own white dress shirt, socks, and black shoes. And there's no vest or anything. So basically, I'm buying a jacket, pants, and a tie. And I'm still not 100% sure we get to keep the tie.
The "logic" I was given behind this idea was that it would be better to pay a little more and be able to keep the suit than pay a hundred bucks and have to return it. Well, riddle me this: Where else am I ever going to wear this suit?
Every wedding has a different, specific style of tux. The chances of this suit matching the tuxes for any future wedding I may be in are astronomical at best. I'd have a better chance of being killed in a hailstorm. Actually, in light of recent events, I would like to redact that last sentence.
And finally, since he was my roomate for a year, and since I most likely won't be
To the blushing bride: Don't ever leave any food sitting anywhere that it might be found unless you are OK with it being eaten.
Hear, hear!
"Your best friend Harry has a brother Larry. In five days from now he's gonna marry. He's hopin' you can make it there if you can, 'cos in the ceremony you'll be the best man..."
Monday, March 23, 2009
The reason for Febrezin'
A funny thing happened on the way to playing golf with the boys this weekend. We met at LJ's and as we were getting ready to leave LJ discovered he had locked his keys in the house.
Fortunately, he has a spare key hidden. Unfortunately, the spare key was hidden in the garage. Even more unfortunately, the garage was locked. Fortunately, it's not the best area--LJ's actually had a few things stolen there before--so none of the neighbors thought anything of seeing three guys prying open a garage door in broad daylight.
Golf was good. We went to Valley Landing. I shot a 101 and got a little bit sunburned. In March! I actually sort of like the first sunburn of the year. It's invigorating. Just another little reminder that summer is on the way and the seasons will be following their usual pattern just as they have since the last ice age. It's comforting. Well, besides the pain and burning when I shower.
After golf, we decided to hang out at LJ's and watch some of the NCAA tournament. I don't think I'd even sat down yet when I noticed it.
"Did you vacuum?"
"Yep."
Well that can only mean one thing, my friends: He's having a girl over.
We bachelors sometimes have a tendency to let things go a little around the house. Laundry piles up. The kitchen table becomes a collection area for junk mail and last year's Christmas presents. With our busy golf-a-day lives, menial tasks like dusting, vacuuming, and putting a trash bag in the trash can sometimes get put on the backburner.
But as soon as there is the impending presence of a female on the premises, we all turn into tub scrubbing carpet cleaners.
To my knowledge, LJ hasn't dated much recently. We're not talking in terms of months or years here. We're talking Presidential administrations. So I could not say with 100% certainty that he had ever cleaned his house since he moved in a few years ago. I guess that's why the clean carpet stood out to me almost immediately.
The Darryls went to a speed dating thing a few weeks ago, which is where LJ met this girl. (Girl, woman, which is it? At what point does a girl become a woman? Nevermind, don't answer that.)
So, it appears the latex glove is on the other foot, er, hand now. On the plus side, I'm looking forward to a much cleaner, more fastidious environment for our future GH roundtable discussions.
Kidding around, sort of, I told LJ we were going to have to live vicariously through him now that he has a girlfriend. He remarked what a change that was as they were usually the ones living vicariously through me. At which point I remarked about how very sad that was and spent awhile contemplating my life and wondering where it all went wrong.
While we were shooting pool, LJ's woman called. (See? Now I'm calling her woman. I don't get it.) After trying a couple of shots with the phone wedged between his ear and shoulder, he put the phone down on the table without saying a word and shot while she yammered on. Wolfgang and I were literally in the floor laughing.
Then I suddenly remembered having done that very same thing before. At the very same table.
Of course, that occurred during a previous administration.
"Now I'm holding umbrellas and openin' up doors. I'm taking out the trash and I'm sweepin' my floors..."
Fortunately, he has a spare key hidden. Unfortunately, the spare key was hidden in the garage. Even more unfortunately, the garage was locked. Fortunately, it's not the best area--LJ's actually had a few things stolen there before--so none of the neighbors thought anything of seeing three guys prying open a garage door in broad daylight.
Golf was good. We went to Valley Landing. I shot a 101 and got a little bit sunburned. In March! I actually sort of like the first sunburn of the year. It's invigorating. Just another little reminder that summer is on the way and the seasons will be following their usual pattern just as they have since the last ice age. It's comforting. Well, besides the pain and burning when I shower.
After golf, we decided to hang out at LJ's and watch some of the NCAA tournament. I don't think I'd even sat down yet when I noticed it.
"Did you vacuum?"
"Yep."
Well that can only mean one thing, my friends: He's having a girl over.
We bachelors sometimes have a tendency to let things go a little around the house. Laundry piles up. The kitchen table becomes a collection area for junk mail and last year's Christmas presents. With our busy golf-a-day lives, menial tasks like dusting, vacuuming, and putting a trash bag in the trash can sometimes get put on the backburner.
But as soon as there is the impending presence of a female on the premises, we all turn into tub scrubbing carpet cleaners.
To my knowledge, LJ hasn't dated much recently. We're not talking in terms of months or years here. We're talking Presidential administrations. So I could not say with 100% certainty that he had ever cleaned his house since he moved in a few years ago. I guess that's why the clean carpet stood out to me almost immediately.
The Darryls went to a speed dating thing a few weeks ago, which is where LJ met this girl. (Girl, woman, which is it? At what point does a girl become a woman? Nevermind, don't answer that.)
So, it appears the latex glove is on the other foot, er, hand now. On the plus side, I'm looking forward to a much cleaner, more fastidious environment for our future GH roundtable discussions.
Kidding around, sort of, I told LJ we were going to have to live vicariously through him now that he has a girlfriend. He remarked what a change that was as they were usually the ones living vicariously through me. At which point I remarked about how very sad that was and spent awhile contemplating my life and wondering where it all went wrong.
While we were shooting pool, LJ's woman called. (See? Now I'm calling her woman. I don't get it.) After trying a couple of shots with the phone wedged between his ear and shoulder, he put the phone down on the table without saying a word and shot while she yammered on. Wolfgang and I were literally in the floor laughing.
Then I suddenly remembered having done that very same thing before. At the very same table.
Of course, that occurred during a previous administration.
"Now I'm holding umbrellas and openin' up doors. I'm taking out the trash and I'm sweepin' my floors..."
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
I meme...because I have nothing to write about
Yes I...just made meme into a verb.
I have not...participated in a meme in ages.
I have been...going through a bit of a writing dry spell lately.
I found...this over at Ally's.
Feel free...to participate yourself.
I am...honest to a fault.
I think...way too much.
I know...more about Seinfeld than probably anyone you have ever met.
I want...to be walking on a beach somewhere.
I have...enough.
I wish...I were better at golf.
I hate...yelling.
I miss...feeling sure of love. Also, Milli Vanilli, Casey's Top Forty, and WKRP In Cincinnati would have been accepted here.
I fear...catheters.
I feel...frustrated.
I hear...my text message alert. It sounds like a submarine ping.
I smell...pretty decent, I think. I used shower gel this morning instead of soap.
I regret...spending too much time in the past.
I love...Nephew Bone.
I care...about my writing.
I always...enjoy a nap.
I am not...good at the movie category in Trivial Pursuit, at all.
I believe...in miracles. Where ya from, you sexy thing?
I dance...to embarrass those I'm with.
I sing...almost constantly when I'm driving.
I write...entire blog entries in my head sometimes.
I win...almost always at putt-putt.
I lose...my voice at most Bama games.
I never...feel ready to get out of bed in the morning.
I listen...as long as nothing shiny is around to distract me.
I can usually be found...trying to make people laugh.
I am scared of...having to be catheterized.
I read...directions only as an absolute last resort.
I forget...almost everything, so don't take it personally.
I just...smelled my arm again to verify the "I smell" line above.
I am happy about...warmer weather arriving soon.
Also, I've added a few categories of my own.
I only...use 2 to 4 slices of every loaf of bread I buy.
I need...a new ringtone. "How Far We've Come" is just a little old now.
I wonder...if I ever become famous if my fans will be proud to call themselves Boneheads.
"Maybe you and me were never meant to be. But baby think of me once in awhile. I'm at WKRP in Cincinnati..."
I have not...participated in a meme in ages.
I have been...going through a bit of a writing dry spell lately.
I found...this over at Ally's.
Feel free...to participate yourself.
I am...honest to a fault.
I think...way too much.
I know...more about Seinfeld than probably anyone you have ever met.
I want...to be walking on a beach somewhere.
I have...enough.
I wish...I were better at golf.
I hate...yelling.
I miss...feeling sure of love. Also, Milli Vanilli, Casey's Top Forty, and WKRP In Cincinnati would have been accepted here.
I fear...catheters.
I feel...frustrated.
I hear...my text message alert. It sounds like a submarine ping.
I smell...pretty decent, I think. I used shower gel this morning instead of soap.
I regret...spending too much time in the past.
I love...Nephew Bone.
I care...about my writing.
I always...enjoy a nap.
I am not...good at the movie category in Trivial Pursuit, at all.
I believe...in miracles. Where ya from, you sexy thing?
I dance...to embarrass those I'm with.
I sing...almost constantly when I'm driving.
I write...entire blog entries in my head sometimes.
I win...almost always at putt-putt.
I lose...my voice at most Bama games.
I never...feel ready to get out of bed in the morning.
I listen...as long as nothing shiny is around to distract me.
I can usually be found...trying to make people laugh.
I am scared of...having to be catheterized.
I read...directions only as an absolute last resort.
I forget...almost everything, so don't take it personally.
I just...smelled my arm again to verify the "I smell" line above.
I am happy about...warmer weather arriving soon.
Also, I've added a few categories of my own.
I only...use 2 to 4 slices of every loaf of bread I buy.
I need...a new ringtone. "How Far We've Come" is just a little old now.
I wonder...if I ever become famous if my fans will be proud to call themselves Boneheads.
"Maybe you and me were never meant to be. But baby think of me once in awhile. I'm at WKRP in Cincinnati..."
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
A splendid splinter (with apologies to Ted Williams)
I was talking to someone the other day about the weather. (Don't worry, things will start to pick up here in a minute.) They made a remark about how they couldn't believe we were already having summer-like weather.
That really stuck with me, you know. Mainly because I don't talk to that many people.
We have been having gorgeous weather the past few days, but it's not here to stay quite yet. It must have been 80 here yesterday, but the high tomorrow is only supposed to be 48.
So I started thinking. I've never really considered March a winter month. Yet it only gets like 10 days of technical spring. So what is it? Maybe we need a new term for the period between winter and spring.
In my head, I started calling it splinter, obviously combining spring and winter. I thought it pure brilliance, and could already see the Wikipedia entry for it forming in my head:
Splinter
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
Splinter is a term given to the period of time comprising the end of winter and beginning of spring. Also roughly equivalent to the month of March in the northern hemisphere. It is usually characterized by drastic swings in temperature, and often features days of spring-like weather followed by days of winter weather. The term was first used by Bone, an early 21st Century blogger, whose lifetime goal [citation needed] it was to have his own Wikipedia entry.
For other uses, see Splinter (disambiguation).
My brain continued to percolate, as I thought of words like spummer, autner and the seemingly oxymoronic summall. I was smiling to myself at yet another ingenious idea when it hit me:
There is no L in winter or spring.
It should be sprinter, not splinter. Why did I put an L in there? It's a wonder I even remember to stand on my head every morning and contact the home planet. But of course, sprinter just doesn't have the same zing as splinter. And since I'm inventing the word anyway, I'm going to continue to call it splinter.
I've been having a splendid splinter. Monday, I celebrated National Napping Day with a solid 90 minute siesta. Yesterday I played golf with some guy from Memphis, who asked if he could join us on the 3rd hole. I fought the urge to ask if he'd ever been to Graceland--it seemed kinda cheesy, plus I'm sure he gets that all the time--but it wasn't easy.
To top things off, last night I figured out that my Blackberry has speakerphone. Sixteen months and I'm still learning new things. Sometimes I get the feeling it has a thousand functions and I know how to use like four.
This new time is scratching me right where I itch. It has really brought me out of my winter hibernation. There just seems to be more... daylight or something. I've been relaxing. Sort of drifting aimlessly. Taking it easy. If I were a radio station, I would be easy listening. If I were a lipstick, I'd be easy, breezy, beautiful Cover Girl. If I were an Eagles song, I'd be... hmm, can't think of one.
To recap, I have just composed an entire post about a non-existent semi-season featuring my very own fake Wikipedia entry while also managing to compare myself to lipstick. I'd call that a full splinter's day.
"I've got seven women on my mind. Four that wanna own me, two that wanna stone me, one says she's a friend of mine..."
That really stuck with me, you know. Mainly because I don't talk to that many people.
We have been having gorgeous weather the past few days, but it's not here to stay quite yet. It must have been 80 here yesterday, but the high tomorrow is only supposed to be 48.
So I started thinking. I've never really considered March a winter month. Yet it only gets like 10 days of technical spring. So what is it? Maybe we need a new term for the period between winter and spring.
In my head, I started calling it splinter, obviously combining spring and winter. I thought it pure brilliance, and could already see the Wikipedia entry for it forming in my head:
Splinter
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
Splinter is a term given to the period of time comprising the end of winter and beginning of spring. Also roughly equivalent to the month of March in the northern hemisphere. It is usually characterized by drastic swings in temperature, and often features days of spring-like weather followed by days of winter weather. The term was first used by Bone, an early 21st Century blogger, whose lifetime goal [citation needed] it was to have his own Wikipedia entry.
For other uses, see Splinter (disambiguation).
My brain continued to percolate, as I thought of words like spummer, autner and the seemingly oxymoronic summall. I was smiling to myself at yet another ingenious idea when it hit me:
There is no L in winter or spring.
It should be sprinter, not splinter. Why did I put an L in there? It's a wonder I even remember to stand on my head every morning and contact the home planet. But of course, sprinter just doesn't have the same zing as splinter. And since I'm inventing the word anyway, I'm going to continue to call it splinter.
I've been having a splendid splinter. Monday, I celebrated National Napping Day with a solid 90 minute siesta. Yesterday I played golf with some guy from Memphis, who asked if he could join us on the 3rd hole. I fought the urge to ask if he'd ever been to Graceland--it seemed kinda cheesy, plus I'm sure he gets that all the time--but it wasn't easy.
To top things off, last night I figured out that my Blackberry has speakerphone. Sixteen months and I'm still learning new things. Sometimes I get the feeling it has a thousand functions and I know how to use like four.
This new time is scratching me right where I itch. It has really brought me out of my winter hibernation. There just seems to be more... daylight or something. I've been relaxing. Sort of drifting aimlessly. Taking it easy. If I were a radio station, I would be easy listening. If I were a lipstick, I'd be easy, breezy, beautiful Cover Girl. If I were an Eagles song, I'd be... hmm, can't think of one.
To recap, I have just composed an entire post about a non-existent semi-season featuring my very own fake Wikipedia entry while also managing to compare myself to lipstick. I'd call that a full splinter's day.
"I've got seven women on my mind. Four that wanna own me, two that wanna stone me, one says she's a friend of mine..."
Monday, October 13, 2008
Bacheloronomics
I hope and trust you are all having a grand Columbus Day. If you're like me, it's not much different from any other day. No day off work. No parades. No TVLand marathon. No delicious sugar cookies shaped like the Nina, Pinta, and Santa Maria.
Columbus Day is sort of the Tito of holidays. Not all that remarkable. Nobody's favorite. But as far as we know, it is still technically a holiday. Oh well, I guess that's what happens when you discover a continent by accident.
I considered recapping my week for you today. For instance, last Wednesday I got spit up on for the first time ever. Then Thursday, I sank a 45 foot putt, the longest of my career. But I figure you've had enough baby and golf stories, at least until tomorrow.
Instead, I want to share with you some tips for saving money in these uncertain economic times. Things I've practiced that have helped me to scrape by for umpteen years on my own now. Not obvious things, like selling your plasma. But more subtle ideas that you can use, say for instance, if you've already reached your 12 times per year plasma donation maximum.
Tip #1 - Ignore expiration dates
We are taught in this country, likely by the biased media, to throw food away if it has expired. Well that's fine if there's a money tree growing in your front yard, or if you go to the grocery store more than once a month. But what about the rest of us?
Expiration dates are nothing more than a way for food companies to get you to buy more often, and probably to avoid litigation as well. An expiration date is like a little ultimatum saying, "Eat me by this date or it is so over!" You wouldn't stand for that from your significant other, so why stand for it from your dairy?
This weekend alone I had a hot dog on buns that were six days past expiration and cereal with milk that was two days past expiration. My rule is, the nose knows.
We all have five to seven senses. Use them! When we're injured we feel pain and curse. When we need to communicate, we open our mouths and speak or grunt. When we hear Celine Dion, we feel pain and curse. And when food has gone bad, we can smell it.
Tip #2 - Do a supper scavenger hunt
How often do you find yourself in this situation? It's 8 or 9 o'clock at night. You don't feel like putting clothes on to go get something to eat, but you haven't been to the grocery store in a long, long time so you figure there's probably nothing to cook.
Well, you just might be surprised. By scrounging around in the cabinets, I'll bet you can come up with a decent meal from things you already have. It's kinda your own personal episode of Survivor. Or maybe not. I've never actually watched the show.
For example, in my cabinet right now (I just went and looked), I have some penne, a thing of syrup, a few sunflower seeds, some unopened Valentine's candy, some peanut butter that "expired" February 23rd, and some corn.
Now, from this... let's see... I could easily make... hmm... Well anyway, you get the idea, I'm sure. Let's move on.
Tip #3 - Never turn down anything from your parents or a free meal from anyone
In my early bachelor days, some of my favorite memories are when I'd be looking thru mostly barren cabinets containing only peanut butter and corn, and Mom or Dad would call asking if I wanted to come over and eat supper.
I learned early on to never turn down a free meal, and here's why. By eating one free meal, you have immediately contributed to a fiscal surplus. Even if it's not the best meal, or not particularly your favorite food. You can eat better food another day, but you can never get back the money you just saved.
As a general rule, parents want to help us. No, they need to help us. Giving makes them feel good. And we should not be so selfish as to deny them that good feeling by not accepting their gifts, or monthly allowance.
So never turn down anything from your parents. And never turn down a free meal from anyone. Ever. Unless, of course, the person preparing it has some sort of massive germophobic violations going on. No amount of money is worth that.
Tip #4 - With laundry, less is more
I do laundry as infrequently as possible. Basically, as long as I have clean underwear, I don't see a reason to do a wash. I'm all about wearing jeans two or three times. And while this has more to do with laziness than frugality, surely there are financial benefits as well.
Do you have any idea how much electricity it takes to run a dryer for one sixty minute cycle? Well, me neither, but it's probably a lot. My suggestion would be to buy up as many pairs of underwear as your drawers will hold, and let everything else go.
Of course, you might occasionally run into minor problems down the road, say if a shirt you want to wear doesn't happen to be clean. That's why I also suggest leaving laundry you think you might wear again lying around on the floor. That way, it doesn't get that musty, stinky hamper smell in it. Because once it's buried in the hamper, all the Febreze and Drakkar in the world won't get that out. Trust me.
Less laundry means less electricity, less costly detergent to purchase, and also less folding and ironing. And that means more fun for everyone.
Also, in the future when you see the bachelor, don't be so quick to judge his fashion sense. Most likely, he's wearing the only thing he could find that was clean, or had only been worn once.
"I ain't goin' down on the border with you tonight, drinking tequila and taking chances on our lives. All the women are crazy. They like to party 'til daylight. On second thought, if I can find a clean shirt, I might..."
Columbus Day is sort of the Tito of holidays. Not all that remarkable. Nobody's favorite. But as far as we know, it is still technically a holiday. Oh well, I guess that's what happens when you discover a continent by accident.
I considered recapping my week for you today. For instance, last Wednesday I got spit up on for the first time ever. Then Thursday, I sank a 45 foot putt, the longest of my career. But I figure you've had enough baby and golf stories, at least until tomorrow.
Instead, I want to share with you some tips for saving money in these uncertain economic times. Things I've practiced that have helped me to scrape by for umpteen years on my own now. Not obvious things, like selling your plasma. But more subtle ideas that you can use, say for instance, if you've already reached your 12 times per year plasma donation maximum.
Tip #1 - Ignore expiration dates
We are taught in this country, likely by the biased media, to throw food away if it has expired. Well that's fine if there's a money tree growing in your front yard, or if you go to the grocery store more than once a month. But what about the rest of us?
Expiration dates are nothing more than a way for food companies to get you to buy more often, and probably to avoid litigation as well. An expiration date is like a little ultimatum saying, "Eat me by this date or it is so over!" You wouldn't stand for that from your significant other, so why stand for it from your dairy?
This weekend alone I had a hot dog on buns that were six days past expiration and cereal with milk that was two days past expiration. My rule is, the nose knows.
We all have five to seven senses. Use them! When we're injured we feel pain and curse. When we need to communicate, we open our mouths and speak or grunt. When we hear Celine Dion, we feel pain and curse. And when food has gone bad, we can smell it.
Tip #2 - Do a supper scavenger hunt
How often do you find yourself in this situation? It's 8 or 9 o'clock at night. You don't feel like putting clothes on to go get something to eat, but you haven't been to the grocery store in a long, long time so you figure there's probably nothing to cook.
Well, you just might be surprised. By scrounging around in the cabinets, I'll bet you can come up with a decent meal from things you already have. It's kinda your own personal episode of Survivor. Or maybe not. I've never actually watched the show.
For example, in my cabinet right now (I just went and looked), I have some penne, a thing of syrup, a few sunflower seeds, some unopened Valentine's candy, some peanut butter that "expired" February 23rd, and some corn.
Now, from this... let's see... I could easily make... hmm... Well anyway, you get the idea, I'm sure. Let's move on.
Tip #3 - Never turn down anything from your parents or a free meal from anyone
In my early bachelor days, some of my favorite memories are when I'd be looking thru mostly barren cabinets containing only peanut butter and corn, and Mom or Dad would call asking if I wanted to come over and eat supper.
I learned early on to never turn down a free meal, and here's why. By eating one free meal, you have immediately contributed to a fiscal surplus. Even if it's not the best meal, or not particularly your favorite food. You can eat better food another day, but you can never get back the money you just saved.
As a general rule, parents want to help us. No, they need to help us. Giving makes them feel good. And we should not be so selfish as to deny them that good feeling by not accepting their gifts, or monthly allowance.
So never turn down anything from your parents. And never turn down a free meal from anyone. Ever. Unless, of course, the person preparing it has some sort of massive germophobic violations going on. No amount of money is worth that.
Tip #4 - With laundry, less is more
I do laundry as infrequently as possible. Basically, as long as I have clean underwear, I don't see a reason to do a wash. I'm all about wearing jeans two or three times. And while this has more to do with laziness than frugality, surely there are financial benefits as well.
Do you have any idea how much electricity it takes to run a dryer for one sixty minute cycle? Well, me neither, but it's probably a lot. My suggestion would be to buy up as many pairs of underwear as your drawers will hold, and let everything else go.
Of course, you might occasionally run into minor problems down the road, say if a shirt you want to wear doesn't happen to be clean. That's why I also suggest leaving laundry you think you might wear again lying around on the floor. That way, it doesn't get that musty, stinky hamper smell in it. Because once it's buried in the hamper, all the Febreze and Drakkar in the world won't get that out. Trust me.
Less laundry means less electricity, less costly detergent to purchase, and also less folding and ironing. And that means more fun for everyone.
Also, in the future when you see the bachelor, don't be so quick to judge his fashion sense. Most likely, he's wearing the only thing he could find that was clean, or had only been worn once.
"I ain't goin' down on the border with you tonight, drinking tequila and taking chances on our lives. All the women are crazy. They like to party 'til daylight. On second thought, if I can find a clean shirt, I might..."
Monday, October 06, 2008
Golf in the time of cooing
Life is--how shall I put this... ah yes, that's it--a highway. An unpredictable series of ups, downs, and embarrassing gaffes. 'Tis a colorful array of accomplishments, milestones, moments, and naps. I recently experienced two such events on the same day.
Two weeks ago this past Tuesday marked my 13,000th day on the face of the Earth. I'm not one to be shy about my age, as I've been told I have the body of a man several thousand days younger. OK, I really haven't been told that, but consider it a suggested compliment.
I embrace the next... hmm, what do you call a thousand days anyway? A long time to be married? Oh, please, shut up. Seriously, stop applauding. Don't start throwing lingerie. Especially not you, sir. Thank you, thank you. I'll be here the rest of my life.
One thousand days. It's not a millenium. We'll call it a minilenium. The dawn of a new minilenium is a time to take stock of one's life, to reflect on just how little one has accomplished and matured in the past thousand days, and to wonder aloud (perhaps while sobbing openly), "What the heck happened to my life?" It's a most joyous occasion.
My 13,000th day passed without any fanfare. It did, however, involve a round of golf. In that way, it was not unlike days number 12994, 13003, et al.
I was on the par four 8th hole at the beautiful Valley Landing Golf Course. I'd hit my tee shot off to the right, over the cart path, and into a little ditch beside the road. A not uncommon predicament to find myself in.
I took out my three wood and hacked away at my second shot. It was as if a huge breeze from heaven lifted my ball. It went sailing up into the sky, held there for a moment, then dropped right onto the edge of the green, about ten feet from the hole.
Arriving at the green, I took out my not so trusty putter and studied the slope, reading a bit of right to left break. The putt appeared to be on line at first, then began to drift ever so slighlty left. It slowed nearly to a stop just as it reached the left edge of the cup. I thought I had missed it.
Then, as if a little invisible golf gnome wearing a red and white striped hat was helping it, the ball fell in. I dropped my putter to the ground and raised my hands to heaven in near disbelief. It was the first birdie of my life.
I don't know if it was divine intervention or the kinship of all living things, but at that moment, I was a golfer. I briefly contemplated retirement. The thought passed quickly. I mean, what else would I do in the afternoons?
My first birdie and turning 13,000 on the same day. The new minilenium is off to a rousing start.
In other milestone news, guess who turned forty last week.
Don't worry buddy. Forty is the new six weeks. Can't you see the resemblance? Although I'm not sure I could rock that shirt. Actually, as a guy, I'm not even sure I should be using the phrase "rock that shirt."
Nephew Bone has been racking up quite a few accomplishments of his own. Sometimes he smiles if I talk to him about trick-or-treating, or maybe just because I'm funny lookin'. And he coo's now. Everybody seems a lot more impressed by that than by my birdie, including me. Next thing you know, he'll be rolling over. And in another few thousand days, I might break 80.
"Life's like a road that you travel on, when there's one day here and the next day gone. Sometimes you bend and sometimes you stand. Sometimes you turn your back to the wind..."
Two weeks ago this past Tuesday marked my 13,000th day on the face of the Earth. I'm not one to be shy about my age, as I've been told I have the body of a man several thousand days younger. OK, I really haven't been told that, but consider it a suggested compliment.
I embrace the next... hmm, what do you call a thousand days anyway? A long time to be married? Oh, please, shut up. Seriously, stop applauding. Don't start throwing lingerie. Especially not you, sir. Thank you, thank you. I'll be here the rest of my life.
One thousand days. It's not a millenium. We'll call it a minilenium. The dawn of a new minilenium is a time to take stock of one's life, to reflect on just how little one has accomplished and matured in the past thousand days, and to wonder aloud (perhaps while sobbing openly), "What the heck happened to my life?" It's a most joyous occasion.
My 13,000th day passed without any fanfare. It did, however, involve a round of golf. In that way, it was not unlike days number 12994, 13003, et al.
I was on the par four 8th hole at the beautiful Valley Landing Golf Course. I'd hit my tee shot off to the right, over the cart path, and into a little ditch beside the road. A not uncommon predicament to find myself in.
I took out my three wood and hacked away at my second shot. It was as if a huge breeze from heaven lifted my ball. It went sailing up into the sky, held there for a moment, then dropped right onto the edge of the green, about ten feet from the hole.
Arriving at the green, I took out my not so trusty putter and studied the slope, reading a bit of right to left break. The putt appeared to be on line at first, then began to drift ever so slighlty left. It slowed nearly to a stop just as it reached the left edge of the cup. I thought I had missed it.
Then, as if a little invisible golf gnome wearing a red and white striped hat was helping it, the ball fell in. I dropped my putter to the ground and raised my hands to heaven in near disbelief. It was the first birdie of my life.
I don't know if it was divine intervention or the kinship of all living things, but at that moment, I was a golfer. I briefly contemplated retirement. The thought passed quickly. I mean, what else would I do in the afternoons?
My first birdie and turning 13,000 on the same day. The new minilenium is off to a rousing start.
In other milestone news, guess who turned forty last week.
Don't worry buddy. Forty is the new six weeks. Can't you see the resemblance? Although I'm not sure I could rock that shirt. Actually, as a guy, I'm not even sure I should be using the phrase "rock that shirt."
Nephew Bone has been racking up quite a few accomplishments of his own. Sometimes he smiles if I talk to him about trick-or-treating, or maybe just because I'm funny lookin'. And he coo's now. Everybody seems a lot more impressed by that than by my birdie, including me. Next thing you know, he'll be rolling over. And in another few thousand days, I might break 80.
"Life's like a road that you travel on, when there's one day here and the next day gone. Sometimes you bend and sometimes you stand. Sometimes you turn your back to the wind..."
Thursday, September 18, 2008
A bachelor looks at thread count
"I love sleep. My life has the tendency to fall apart when I'm awake, you know?" ~ Ernest Hemingway
I think I may have made a big mistake.
I purchased some new sheets this past weekend. They were of the higher thread count, extra soft variety. And now all I want to do is lie in bed. Granted, that's mostly all I wanted to do before, but now it's even worse.
Have I ever shared with you my deep affection for sleep? I love sleep. Literally love it. I think I could marry sleep. Really. I'd have no problems with the vows. In sickness and in health? Till death do us part? Please. I sleep when I'm sick. I sleep when I'm well. I'll sleep till I'm dead. I'll sleep dressed in red, said Fred.
Sleep and I have had a long relationship. At times we've been almost inseparable. When I was little--and by little I mean between the ages of seven and eighteen--it was so difficult to wake me that my mother resorted to dripping icy cold water on my face. In thirty-five years, n'er a day has passed that sleep and I haven't spent time together. I thought I knew love, er, sleep. But I didn't know anything until I met these extra soft high thread count sheets.
To me, sheets were always kinda like underwear. Just something to help keep you from getting itchy. Often, my parents would get me some for Christmas. And when I did buy my own, I went for the lowest price. After all they were just sheets, right? Oh, how naive I was.
Now, it's like sleeping on a happy, fluffy, velvety cloud in a Bob Ross painting. No, make that a velvety fog. Yes, that's it. It's like sleeping on Mel Torme's voice. Sometimes I just lie in bed and run my hands all over her, I mean, them. Throw in a new foam mattress pad and it's a horizontal Xanadu!
I may never get out of bed again, save to golf and work and go to Bama games. And work would totally be negotiable except that's the only way I can afford to do the other two. And by can, I mean, can't really but do anyway. The only thing that bothers me is that I'm just now discovering this. I've basically deprived myself of thirty-five years of velvet fog sleep that I can never get back.
Well, here's to making up for lost time. As if it wasn't hard enough for me to get out of bed in the morning already.
"I've been a-waiting for you most of my life. Now that we're together and we're where we belong, I can't help but wonder why, why did it take so long?"
I think I may have made a big mistake.
I purchased some new sheets this past weekend. They were of the higher thread count, extra soft variety. And now all I want to do is lie in bed. Granted, that's mostly all I wanted to do before, but now it's even worse.
Have I ever shared with you my deep affection for sleep? I love sleep. Literally love it. I think I could marry sleep. Really. I'd have no problems with the vows. In sickness and in health? Till death do us part? Please. I sleep when I'm sick. I sleep when I'm well. I'll sleep till I'm dead. I'll sleep dressed in red, said Fred.
Sleep and I have had a long relationship. At times we've been almost inseparable. When I was little--and by little I mean between the ages of seven and eighteen--it was so difficult to wake me that my mother resorted to dripping icy cold water on my face. In thirty-five years, n'er a day has passed that sleep and I haven't spent time together. I thought I knew love, er, sleep. But I didn't know anything until I met these extra soft high thread count sheets.
To me, sheets were always kinda like underwear. Just something to help keep you from getting itchy. Often, my parents would get me some for Christmas. And when I did buy my own, I went for the lowest price. After all they were just sheets, right? Oh, how naive I was.
Now, it's like sleeping on a happy, fluffy, velvety cloud in a Bob Ross painting. No, make that a velvety fog. Yes, that's it. It's like sleeping on Mel Torme's voice. Sometimes I just lie in bed and run my hands all over her, I mean, them. Throw in a new foam mattress pad and it's a horizontal Xanadu!
I may never get out of bed again, save to golf and work and go to Bama games. And work would totally be negotiable except that's the only way I can afford to do the other two. And by can, I mean, can't really but do anyway. The only thing that bothers me is that I'm just now discovering this. I've basically deprived myself of thirty-five years of velvet fog sleep that I can never get back.
Well, here's to making up for lost time. As if it wasn't hard enough for me to get out of bed in the morning already.
"I've been a-waiting for you most of my life. Now that we're together and we're where we belong, I can't help but wonder why, why did it take so long?"
Wednesday, June 04, 2008
Professor Clink did it, with an 8 iron, in the fairway
"Golf can best be defined as an endless series of tragedies obscured by the occasional miracle." ~ Unknown
The wind was angry that day, my friends. Like Dick Cheney on any given day. We were on the eighth hole, a short par four with water just in front of the green. I had hit my tee shot down the right side of the tree-lined fairway and was lying about 120 yards from the hole.
Figuring I needed about 110 yards to safely carry the water, I chose an 8 iron for my approach shot, just wanting to make sure I got it over. I was staring directly into a blinding sunset so that after I hit it, I couldn't see the flight of the ball at all. I felt like I caught it cleanly and was fairly confident I had at least cleared the water. And then...
CLINK!
My ball had struck the flagstick! It was my own little occasional miracle. The rare amazing shot that keeps the avid but mediocre golfer coming back again and again and again.
I started towards the hole breaking into sort of a jubilant trot, and may or may not have pumped my fist and yelped a little. Shielding my eyes from the sun, I could see it there on the green. It had rolled about ten feet left of the hole.
Of course, I missed the birdie putt and tapped in for par. But still, it was the single greatest shot of my short golf career thusfar.
And that's exactly the story I'm going to tell my firstborn when he or she asks what happened to their college fund.
(Also, if you got the incredibly bad Clue joke in the title, well, I apologize.)
"These old dog days of summer, lord I'll be glad when they're gone. It's too hot to fish, and too hot for golf..."
The wind was angry that day, my friends. Like Dick Cheney on any given day. We were on the eighth hole, a short par four with water just in front of the green. I had hit my tee shot down the right side of the tree-lined fairway and was lying about 120 yards from the hole.
Figuring I needed about 110 yards to safely carry the water, I chose an 8 iron for my approach shot, just wanting to make sure I got it over. I was staring directly into a blinding sunset so that after I hit it, I couldn't see the flight of the ball at all. I felt like I caught it cleanly and was fairly confident I had at least cleared the water. And then...
CLINK!
My ball had struck the flagstick! It was my own little occasional miracle. The rare amazing shot that keeps the avid but mediocre golfer coming back again and again and again.
I started towards the hole breaking into sort of a jubilant trot, and may or may not have pumped my fist and yelped a little. Shielding my eyes from the sun, I could see it there on the green. It had rolled about ten feet left of the hole.
Of course, I missed the birdie putt and tapped in for par. But still, it was the single greatest shot of my short golf career thusfar.
And that's exactly the story I'm going to tell my firstborn when he or she asks what happened to their college fund.
(Also, if you got the incredibly bad Clue joke in the title, well, I apologize.)
"These old dog days of summer, lord I'll be glad when they're gone. It's too hot to fish, and too hot for golf..."
Monday, April 14, 2008
A blackberry winter?
Some sense of normalcy has returned to the world of Bone over the past week. Well, normal for me anyway. Things have been good. Dad is doing well. We talk more often now. And when I went to visit him last week for the first time since he got out of the hospital, he sent me home with a guitar, amp, tuner, and chord charts. This oughta be fun, as soon as I figure out how to work the amp. Two knobs, two holes, a switch, and a light--how hard can it be?
In other good news, I won my NCAA tournament pool, which is the first time I can ever remember that happening. Go Jayhawks! I'm pretty sure that is the first time I've ever made that statement as well.
I also think I may have become addicted to golf. I played three times last week. My "balls lost" count was zero, one, and I-don't-want-to-talk-about-it. Someone remarked it was better that I be addicted to golf than crack. I suppose that's true, though I can't imagine crack being much more expensive.
The warm bogey-filled days of yester-week have given way to arctic-like temperatures this week. Lows were in the 30's last night and expected to be there again the next two nights. At first, I figured this was most likely the onset of the next ice age. Then I realized if that were the case, we would have seen massive glacier progression by now. How stupid of me.
I began to wonder if this is what the old folks call Blackberry Winter. I wasn't sure, so I called the oldest person I know. I said, "Dad, is this Blackberry Winter?" He said, "I don't know if it's blackberry winter or dogwood winter. Whatever it is, it's cold."
Moments like this are why it's so very important to talk to our elders, learn from their experiences, and listen to their stories. Now I will be able to someday pass that wisdom along to my son or daughter, or nursing home attendant.
Through further research, I have determined that this is more likely Dogwood Winter. Both Dogwood Winter and Blackberry Winter are names given to a period of cold, contrary weather, usually lasting a couple of days and following a lengthy warm spell. Dogwood Winter was so named as it coincides with the blooming of the dogwood trees in mid-April. And likewise, Blackberry Winter is a cold snap occurring when the blackberry bushes are in bloom in mid-May.
I don't know how widespread these terms are, but it would be interesting to know how many of you are familiar with one or both of these terms. I've heard the phrase Blackberry Winter all my life. Coincidentally, or not so, I had some blackberry cobbler for dessert last night. I'm not sure what all of this means, but in the wise words of he who reared me, "Whatever it is, it's cold."
So what have we learned? For one thing, there is no Wikipedia entry for "blackberry winter." You have no idea the kind of existential conflict this creates within my brain. Also, adages that have been around a hundred years have been around a hundred years for a reason.
To summarize the rest, I have prepared a helpful chart:
Blackberry = nutritious fruit; also a wireless handheld device
Cobbler = delicious dessert
Blackberry cobbler = good
Blackberry winter = cold
Cold blackberry cobbler = bad
Winter cobbler = undefined, but I'm intrigued
I guess the bottom line is to not put away your long sleeves quite yet. Dogwood Winter is here. And apparently, Blackberry Winter is still to come. Personally, I prefer the gorgeous weather of last week, which I do hereby officially name Bradford Pear Summer.
"Love and seasons never stay. Bitter winds are sure to follow. Now there's no doubt it's gonna be cold out tonight. I've shivered all day..."
In other good news, I won my NCAA tournament pool, which is the first time I can ever remember that happening. Go Jayhawks! I'm pretty sure that is the first time I've ever made that statement as well.
I also think I may have become addicted to golf. I played three times last week. My "balls lost" count was zero, one, and I-don't-want-to-talk-about-it. Someone remarked it was better that I be addicted to golf than crack. I suppose that's true, though I can't imagine crack being much more expensive.
The warm bogey-filled days of yester-week have given way to arctic-like temperatures this week. Lows were in the 30's last night and expected to be there again the next two nights. At first, I figured this was most likely the onset of the next ice age. Then I realized if that were the case, we would have seen massive glacier progression by now. How stupid of me.
I began to wonder if this is what the old folks call Blackberry Winter. I wasn't sure, so I called the oldest person I know. I said, "Dad, is this Blackberry Winter?" He said, "I don't know if it's blackberry winter or dogwood winter. Whatever it is, it's cold."
Moments like this are why it's so very important to talk to our elders, learn from their experiences, and listen to their stories. Now I will be able to someday pass that wisdom along to my son or daughter, or nursing home attendant.
Through further research, I have determined that this is more likely Dogwood Winter. Both Dogwood Winter and Blackberry Winter are names given to a period of cold, contrary weather, usually lasting a couple of days and following a lengthy warm spell. Dogwood Winter was so named as it coincides with the blooming of the dogwood trees in mid-April. And likewise, Blackberry Winter is a cold snap occurring when the blackberry bushes are in bloom in mid-May.
I don't know how widespread these terms are, but it would be interesting to know how many of you are familiar with one or both of these terms. I've heard the phrase Blackberry Winter all my life. Coincidentally, or not so, I had some blackberry cobbler for dessert last night. I'm not sure what all of this means, but in the wise words of he who reared me, "Whatever it is, it's cold."
So what have we learned? For one thing, there is no Wikipedia entry for "blackberry winter." You have no idea the kind of existential conflict this creates within my brain. Also, adages that have been around a hundred years have been around a hundred years for a reason.
To summarize the rest, I have prepared a helpful chart:
Blackberry = nutritious fruit; also a wireless handheld device
Cobbler = delicious dessert
Blackberry cobbler = good
Blackberry winter = cold
Cold blackberry cobbler = bad
Winter cobbler = undefined, but I'm intrigued
I guess the bottom line is to not put away your long sleeves quite yet. Dogwood Winter is here. And apparently, Blackberry Winter is still to come. Personally, I prefer the gorgeous weather of last week, which I do hereby officially name Bradford Pear Summer.
"Love and seasons never stay. Bitter winds are sure to follow. Now there's no doubt it's gonna be cold out tonight. I've shivered all day..."
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Nothing but chicks and basketball
I hope you all had a good Easter. Apparently, the word is out that I like Peeps, as I received no fewer than four packs of marshmallow chicks and bunnies this weekend. That's in addition to the one pack I bought myself before Easter, just in case everyone else forgot. I couldn't risk it.
In other weekend happenings, Jamie and I played golf Saturday, my first time on the links in 2008. I'm proud to say I only lost two balls, which as you may know is how I truly keep score. It's kinda like that peg game at Cracker Barrel. If you leave only one peg, "yore a genius." Well, if I lose only one ball, I'm... whatever the golf equivalent of a genius is, in my mind anyway. I'm not sure what losing zero balls would equal. But as that's pretty much like the three minute mile to me, I probably shouldn't waste a lot of time pondering it.
The highlight of my day, yea, my weekend, was holing a 25-foot par putt from the fringe on the 13th hole. It was a big breaker to the right. And probably the single greatest moment in my life since I hit a homerun in a softball game a few years ago, which didn't end up counting anyway because we'd already reached our alloted home run limit of one for that game.
Should it disturb me that I consider athletic acheivement among the greatest moments in my life, when I've not played any organized sports--other than the occasional softball league--since high school? Tell you what, let's not even analyze it. If we dig too deep, it could just become sad. And who would want that.
After golf, I headed over to Axl's to watch basketball. Ah yes, March Madness. When seeds and brackets aren't just gardening and hardware terms. When Bryant becomes the "other Gumbel brother" for two and a half weeks. And when your wife or girlfriend is babbling on about being upset, and your response to her involves the phrase "five-twelve."
I have Kansas, UCLA, North Carolina, and Texas in my Final Four. Out of curiosity, I was looking back at my March Madness post from a year ago. Oddly enough, two statements I made then are applicable again this year. And I quote: "The good news is, my Final Four all made it thru to the Sweet 16... The bad news is, my Cinderella team, Winthrop, lost in the second round."
The only difference is that Winthrop lost in the first round this year. Note to my 2009 self: Do not pick Winthrop.
I had three different stops to make yesterday for Easter. At Mom's, she of course still boils eggs. And dyes them. And makes us hide them and hunt them. In her living room.
I should probably mention here that there was no one under the age of twenty-seven among those gathered at Mom's. Anyway, you really have to get creative with hiding places, especially by the fourth or fifth go round. I think my best was when I unscrewed the light bulb from the lamp and replaced it with an egg.
Meanwhile at my Aunt's, I got into an existential discussion about the Easter Bunny with my nine-year-old cousin. I asked what seemed like a harmless enough question, "Did the Easter Bunny come to see you?" She replied with, "The Easter Bunny is fake. But my momma came to see me." She's nine! I was driving before I figured out the Easter Bunny.
I decided not to even bring up the Velveteen Rabbit. I know he's real.
"Closer than my peeps you are to me, baby. Shawty, you're my angel, you're my darlin' angel..."
In other weekend happenings, Jamie and I played golf Saturday, my first time on the links in 2008. I'm proud to say I only lost two balls, which as you may know is how I truly keep score. It's kinda like that peg game at Cracker Barrel. If you leave only one peg, "yore a genius." Well, if I lose only one ball, I'm... whatever the golf equivalent of a genius is, in my mind anyway. I'm not sure what losing zero balls would equal. But as that's pretty much like the three minute mile to me, I probably shouldn't waste a lot of time pondering it.
The highlight of my day, yea, my weekend, was holing a 25-foot par putt from the fringe on the 13th hole. It was a big breaker to the right. And probably the single greatest moment in my life since I hit a homerun in a softball game a few years ago, which didn't end up counting anyway because we'd already reached our alloted home run limit of one for that game.
Should it disturb me that I consider athletic acheivement among the greatest moments in my life, when I've not played any organized sports--other than the occasional softball league--since high school? Tell you what, let's not even analyze it. If we dig too deep, it could just become sad. And who would want that.
After golf, I headed over to Axl's to watch basketball. Ah yes, March Madness. When seeds and brackets aren't just gardening and hardware terms. When Bryant becomes the "other Gumbel brother" for two and a half weeks. And when your wife or girlfriend is babbling on about being upset, and your response to her involves the phrase "five-twelve."
I have Kansas, UCLA, North Carolina, and Texas in my Final Four. Out of curiosity, I was looking back at my March Madness post from a year ago. Oddly enough, two statements I made then are applicable again this year. And I quote: "The good news is, my Final Four all made it thru to the Sweet 16... The bad news is, my Cinderella team, Winthrop, lost in the second round."
The only difference is that Winthrop lost in the first round this year. Note to my 2009 self: Do not pick Winthrop.
I had three different stops to make yesterday for Easter. At Mom's, she of course still boils eggs. And dyes them. And makes us hide them and hunt them. In her living room.
I should probably mention here that there was no one under the age of twenty-seven among those gathered at Mom's. Anyway, you really have to get creative with hiding places, especially by the fourth or fifth go round. I think my best was when I unscrewed the light bulb from the lamp and replaced it with an egg.
Meanwhile at my Aunt's, I got into an existential discussion about the Easter Bunny with my nine-year-old cousin. I asked what seemed like a harmless enough question, "Did the Easter Bunny come to see you?" She replied with, "The Easter Bunny is fake. But my momma came to see me." She's nine! I was driving before I figured out the Easter Bunny.
I decided not to even bring up the Velveteen Rabbit. I know he's real.
"Closer than my peeps you are to me, baby. Shawty, you're my angel, you're my darlin' angel..."
Tuesday, November 06, 2007
Won't you be my neighbor?
I'm thinking about doing the Second Annual 80's Week here on IYROOBTY. I was looking back to last year, and 80's Week was the second week of November. We had an 80's themed 3WW, The Time I Almost Met John Stamos, and Where Are They Now: New Kids On The Block. Please let me know if there are any 80's topics you would like to see covered.
Hemingway had a Three Day Blow. I have a six day hiatus. I think this may officially be the longest period of time I have ever gone without blogging. Perhaps one of you who have my blog committed to memory can either confirm or deny that.
It just seems like the same old, same old here. Football and golf, football and golf. Sometimes I feel like my life is a Kibbles 'N Bits commercial, without the cute puppies.
I took a day off work Friday and played golf. (See? There's just no shock value there.) Little Joe and I teed off--that's golf lingo for "began a round"--shortly after Noon. My goal for the day was to play with no mulligans, which I accomplished. I also only lost one ball. But perhaps the outing can best be summed up by the following quote:
"I think I left my pitching wedge beside the sixth green."
Friday night was the bachelor party of the century, which I somehow managed to miss. It was held at Red Lobster.
Yes, that Red Lobster.
Because what better way to say adios to your single days than with a plateful of endless shrimp and a couple of cheesy biscuits. From their slogan, "Share The Love," to the tankful of naked lobsters located inside the restaurant, this place just screams party.
Unfortunately, by the time I got back in town, the screams had died down and the party had broken up. You know, because it was already 10:00 PM.
Saturday was a neighborly day in this beauty wood. I awakened to the sweet sounds of footsteps on stairs and objects banging into walls. Ah, yes. The new neighbors were moving in... at 6:30 in the morning!
The banging finally subsided a little after 8:00, but I never managed to get back to sleep. At some point during the weekend, the guy stopped by to introduce himself. His name is Rocky. I'm not joking.
On the bright side--and keep in mind this is all relative--they did put out a little decorative porch ornament thingy: a white plastic dog with a small lantern hanging from its mouth.
It really adds a touch of something to the entire complex. It's sort of that whole plastic flamingo vibe that has been missing here for so long. I just hope I don't accidentally step on it, or set it ablaze.
Finally, as I was leaving Saturday to go to the Bama game, I noticed an Auburn tag on the back of Rocky's car.
Sigh. There goes the neighborhood.
"I have always wanted to have a neighbor just like you. I've always wanted to live in a neighborhood with you..."
Hemingway had a Three Day Blow. I have a six day hiatus. I think this may officially be the longest period of time I have ever gone without blogging. Perhaps one of you who have my blog committed to memory can either confirm or deny that.
It just seems like the same old, same old here. Football and golf, football and golf. Sometimes I feel like my life is a Kibbles 'N Bits commercial, without the cute puppies.
I took a day off work Friday and played golf. (See? There's just no shock value there.) Little Joe and I teed off--that's golf lingo for "began a round"--shortly after Noon. My goal for the day was to play with no mulligans, which I accomplished. I also only lost one ball. But perhaps the outing can best be summed up by the following quote:
"I think I left my pitching wedge beside the sixth green."
Friday night was the bachelor party of the century, which I somehow managed to miss. It was held at Red Lobster.
Yes, that Red Lobster.
Because what better way to say adios to your single days than with a plateful of endless shrimp and a couple of cheesy biscuits. From their slogan, "Share The Love," to the tankful of naked lobsters located inside the restaurant, this place just screams party.
Unfortunately, by the time I got back in town, the screams had died down and the party had broken up. You know, because it was already 10:00 PM.
Saturday was a neighborly day in this beauty wood. I awakened to the sweet sounds of footsteps on stairs and objects banging into walls. Ah, yes. The new neighbors were moving in... at 6:30 in the morning!
The banging finally subsided a little after 8:00, but I never managed to get back to sleep. At some point during the weekend, the guy stopped by to introduce himself. His name is Rocky. I'm not joking.
On the bright side--and keep in mind this is all relative--they did put out a little decorative porch ornament thingy: a white plastic dog with a small lantern hanging from its mouth.
It really adds a touch of something to the entire complex. It's sort of that whole plastic flamingo vibe that has been missing here for so long. I just hope I don't accidentally step on it, or set it ablaze.
Finally, as I was leaving Saturday to go to the Bama game, I noticed an Auburn tag on the back of Rocky's car.
Sigh. There goes the neighborhood.
"I have always wanted to have a neighbor just like you. I've always wanted to live in a neighborhood with you..."
Tuesday, October 02, 2007
Who's bad?
Today is the day!
Occasionally I wonder if people get tired of reading the same old things here on ye olde blog. Especially when every weekend lately is the same old thing: football, girls, and golf. I mean, seriously, anymore golf and I'd have to change the name of my blog to Greenside Chats With Bone.
Besides, there's more to life than that, right? There's video games and Seinfeld and... well anyway. In an attempt to change things up and show another side of this bachelor you know as Bone (but mostly because I was craving something sweet), I added another element to my weekend.
Friday, I attempted to make some cookies. Unfortunately, I was on the phone while making them. Bad idea. Let's see, how shall I describe the end result? Have you ever bitten into a stick? Well, they were dryer than that.
By the way, on a completely unrelated note, did you know peanut butter can go bad? Sure, it might take a few years, but trust me, it can happen. Who knew!
I also went to the driving range Friday, then spent the rest of my evening watching the South Florida/West Virginia game and image googling Hope Solo. Hey, I gotta fit girls in there somewhere.
One might think that would have been the highlight of my weekend. Think again. Little Joe and I went to play golf Sunday afternoon. I was standing behind my car when he pulled up and opened his door. His radio was blaring "Bad" by Michael Jackson.
My first instinct was to say, "Turn that down before someone hears!" You know, because that's what I do anytime I'm jamming to George Michael or Bobby Brown and I think someone might be able to hear. But I kept my mouth shut. I mean, you take away a man's music, you take away his spirit, his will to live.
As we were walking towards the clubhouse, LJ informed me that he had come across an old Casey Kasem countdown on the radio and that's what he was listening to. Friends, at that moment, I wanted to suggest that we skip golf entirely and just sit in the car together listening to AT40 with Casey. But I felt that would be socially unacceptable, so we golfed.
Sunday night, not to be defeated by my earlier misadventure, I tried making cookies again. Except I didn't have enough of the required ingredients remaining, so I decided to halve the recipe.
Well, I'm not sure if I got confused with the fractions or if some recipes just aren't meant to be halved. I mean, do you halve the cooking time, too? Suffice it to say I was 0-for-2 on baking this weekend. I guess lessons learned during my one semester in 8th grade home ec have been forgotten.
I feel much more at home on the patio. So last night, I grilled, trading in my wooden spoon for tongs and an oven mitt. Apparently, the King of Pop isn't the only one who performs better with one glove.
"And the whole world has to answer right now just to tell you once again, who's bad.."
Occasionally I wonder if people get tired of reading the same old things here on ye olde blog. Especially when every weekend lately is the same old thing: football, girls, and golf. I mean, seriously, anymore golf and I'd have to change the name of my blog to Greenside Chats With Bone.
Besides, there's more to life than that, right? There's video games and Seinfeld and... well anyway. In an attempt to change things up and show another side of this bachelor you know as Bone (but mostly because I was craving something sweet), I added another element to my weekend.
Friday, I attempted to make some cookies. Unfortunately, I was on the phone while making them. Bad idea. Let's see, how shall I describe the end result? Have you ever bitten into a stick? Well, they were dryer than that.
By the way, on a completely unrelated note, did you know peanut butter can go bad? Sure, it might take a few years, but trust me, it can happen. Who knew!
I also went to the driving range Friday, then spent the rest of my evening watching the South Florida/West Virginia game and image googling Hope Solo. Hey, I gotta fit girls in there somewhere.
One might think that would have been the highlight of my weekend. Think again. Little Joe and I went to play golf Sunday afternoon. I was standing behind my car when he pulled up and opened his door. His radio was blaring "Bad" by Michael Jackson.
My first instinct was to say, "Turn that down before someone hears!" You know, because that's what I do anytime I'm jamming to George Michael or Bobby Brown and I think someone might be able to hear. But I kept my mouth shut. I mean, you take away a man's music, you take away his spirit, his will to live.
As we were walking towards the clubhouse, LJ informed me that he had come across an old Casey Kasem countdown on the radio and that's what he was listening to. Friends, at that moment, I wanted to suggest that we skip golf entirely and just sit in the car together listening to AT40 with Casey. But I felt that would be socially unacceptable, so we golfed.
Sunday night, not to be defeated by my earlier misadventure, I tried making cookies again. Except I didn't have enough of the required ingredients remaining, so I decided to halve the recipe.
Well, I'm not sure if I got confused with the fractions or if some recipes just aren't meant to be halved. I mean, do you halve the cooking time, too? Suffice it to say I was 0-for-2 on baking this weekend. I guess lessons learned during my one semester in 8th grade home ec have been forgotten.
I feel much more at home on the patio. So last night, I grilled, trading in my wooden spoon for tongs and an oven mitt. Apparently, the King of Pop isn't the only one who performs better with one glove.
"And the whole world has to answer right now just to tell you once again, who's bad.."
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Mulligans for everyone!
This makes me very happy. October 2nd!!!
Well, I finally did it. After a seven year hiatus, I have resumed my golfing career. Sunday afternoon, Little Joe and I "hit the links." That's slang for played golf... on a course, like with sand traps, trees, pitching wedges, golf carts, and stuff. Oh and mulligans. Lots of mulligans.
We "rode nine." That's slang for played nine holes with a golf cart. I don't think it truly hit me that I was back on the golf course until around the third hole. That's when I sailed consecutive tee shots into the same tree.
We're not talking up in the branches, either. We're talking into the trunk, maybe 18 inches across. And I hit it from fifty yards away. Twice. It's good to know all that time and money spent at the driving range was finally paying off.
Little Joe was a blast, as well. It was his first time to ever be on a golf course. Well, legally anyway.
I would stop the cart near his ball then walk to mine, expecting that by the time I got ready to hit, he would've already taken his shot. Yet everytime I got to my ball and turned around, he was either still taking one of his umpteen practice swings, or looking at me like he was waiting for the go ahead or something. I felt like a flagman on a carrier ship trying to give him the signal to "Hit your shot."
Not counting the four mulligans I took off the tee--because by definition, mulligans do not count--I shot a 51. Par was 36. Most importantly, I only lost three balls, which was really only two, because I could see one, I just didn't feel like getting my shoes all muddy to retrieve it.
One question did arise Sunday. I guess it would be a question of golf course etiquette. My cell phone rang three times and I received two text messages during my nine holes. I don't think I had a cell phone the last time I played. So what is proper golf etiquette? Are cell phones allowed on the course?
I kinda hope they are, because I found out yet another thing I like about golf Sunday. When someone calls and asks what I'm doing, I like the coolness factor of being able to say, "I'm on the golf course."
"I think it turned ten o'clock but I don't really know. Then I can't remember caring for an hour or so..."
Well, I finally did it. After a seven year hiatus, I have resumed my golfing career. Sunday afternoon, Little Joe and I "hit the links." That's slang for played golf... on a course, like with sand traps, trees, pitching wedges, golf carts, and stuff. Oh and mulligans. Lots of mulligans.
We "rode nine." That's slang for played nine holes with a golf cart. I don't think it truly hit me that I was back on the golf course until around the third hole. That's when I sailed consecutive tee shots into the same tree.
We're not talking up in the branches, either. We're talking into the trunk, maybe 18 inches across. And I hit it from fifty yards away. Twice. It's good to know all that time and money spent at the driving range was finally paying off.
Little Joe was a blast, as well. It was his first time to ever be on a golf course. Well, legally anyway.
I would stop the cart near his ball then walk to mine, expecting that by the time I got ready to hit, he would've already taken his shot. Yet everytime I got to my ball and turned around, he was either still taking one of his umpteen practice swings, or looking at me like he was waiting for the go ahead or something. I felt like a flagman on a carrier ship trying to give him the signal to "Hit your shot."
Not counting the four mulligans I took off the tee--because by definition, mulligans do not count--I shot a 51. Par was 36. Most importantly, I only lost three balls, which was really only two, because I could see one, I just didn't feel like getting my shoes all muddy to retrieve it.
One question did arise Sunday. I guess it would be a question of golf course etiquette. My cell phone rang three times and I received two text messages during my nine holes. I don't think I had a cell phone the last time I played. So what is proper golf etiquette? Are cell phones allowed on the course?
I kinda hope they are, because I found out yet another thing I like about golf Sunday. When someone calls and asks what I'm doing, I like the coolness factor of being able to say, "I'm on the golf course."
"I think it turned ten o'clock but I don't really know. Then I can't remember caring for an hour or so..."
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Nine iron over the starboard side
I consider myself to be somewhat athletic. I try and go running at least two or three times a week, I've played on several slow-pitch softball teams over the years, I've bowled my share of 200+ games, etc. I enjoy sports, whether watching or participating. And I feel that with time and practice I've been able to become at least decent at every sport I've tried.
Every sport that is, except one.
An old joke says, "Golf is a four-letter word." Another says, "Golf can best be described as an endless series of tragedies obscured by the occasional miracle."
Truer words have never been spoken. I took up golf several years ago and found it to be by far the most difficult sport I've ever tried to learn. It has, in a sense, become my white whale.
When I was golfing, I measured my progress less by scorecard and more by the number of balls I lost per round. When I began, losing six balls a round in the water, woods, or across the street in someone's front yard was commonplace. By the time I stopped playing, I was finishing most rounds with all my balls present and accounted for.
I haven't been golfing in six or seven years. My clubs, of which I never broke a single one, sit in one corner of my office. Some days they seem to taunt me, reminding me that I never conquered this game.
Also, for some odd reason, I've had an abnormal number of dreams about golf over the years. Even though I was never very good, and never even played that much, I would dream about it. And I would wake up wanting to go golfing. Why? I suck at it. So why do I enjoy it so much? What is the allure of golf?
I may not be able to answer that question, but the simple fact is that for whatever reason, men love golf. Golf and cars. Think about when man walked on the moon. What are two of the things you remember most about that? They hit a golf ball and they drove around in that little car.
I have a feeling the golf thing wasn't even approved by NASA. It probably went something like this:
Buzz: "Dude, you're bringing golf clubs on the space capsule?"
Neil: "Yeah, you know, in case we get bored. Have you seen those moon pictures? It's so barren and gray. Don't mention this to anyone, but honestly, it looks kinda lame."
And that US flag they brought? That wasn't some stake of claim. That was a flagstick so Neil would know where the hole was.
(Yes, I'm aware Alan Shepard is the astronaut who golfed on the moon, but I workshopped this using Alan. Not as funny as Buzz and Neil.)
So this past weekend, I loaded my harpoons in the back of the Pequod and went to the driving range in pursuit yet again of my white whale. After spending roughly an hour spraying a bucketful of dimpled projectiles in a variety of directions and distances, one thing became crystal clear. I suck.
But also, I've got the fever again. I'm back on the wagon, or golf cart, as the case may be. And no water hazard is safe.
Standing there after I shanked my first shot off the tee Sunday, those immortal words from 38 years ago wafted through my mind. Slightly altered, of course.
One small swing for man, one giant slice for Bone.
"Swing, swing, swing, from the tangles of, my heart is crushed by a former love. Can you help me find a way to carry on again?"
Every sport that is, except one.
An old joke says, "Golf is a four-letter word." Another says, "Golf can best be described as an endless series of tragedies obscured by the occasional miracle."
Truer words have never been spoken. I took up golf several years ago and found it to be by far the most difficult sport I've ever tried to learn. It has, in a sense, become my white whale.
When I was golfing, I measured my progress less by scorecard and more by the number of balls I lost per round. When I began, losing six balls a round in the water, woods, or across the street in someone's front yard was commonplace. By the time I stopped playing, I was finishing most rounds with all my balls present and accounted for.
I haven't been golfing in six or seven years. My clubs, of which I never broke a single one, sit in one corner of my office. Some days they seem to taunt me, reminding me that I never conquered this game.
Also, for some odd reason, I've had an abnormal number of dreams about golf over the years. Even though I was never very good, and never even played that much, I would dream about it. And I would wake up wanting to go golfing. Why? I suck at it. So why do I enjoy it so much? What is the allure of golf?
I may not be able to answer that question, but the simple fact is that for whatever reason, men love golf. Golf and cars. Think about when man walked on the moon. What are two of the things you remember most about that? They hit a golf ball and they drove around in that little car.
I have a feeling the golf thing wasn't even approved by NASA. It probably went something like this:
Buzz: "Dude, you're bringing golf clubs on the space capsule?"
Neil: "Yeah, you know, in case we get bored. Have you seen those moon pictures? It's so barren and gray. Don't mention this to anyone, but honestly, it looks kinda lame."
And that US flag they brought? That wasn't some stake of claim. That was a flagstick so Neil would know where the hole was.
(Yes, I'm aware Alan Shepard is the astronaut who golfed on the moon, but I workshopped this using Alan. Not as funny as Buzz and Neil.)
So this past weekend, I loaded my harpoons in the back of the Pequod and went to the driving range in pursuit yet again of my white whale. After spending roughly an hour spraying a bucketful of dimpled projectiles in a variety of directions and distances, one thing became crystal clear. I suck.
But also, I've got the fever again. I'm back on the wagon, or golf cart, as the case may be. And no water hazard is safe.
Standing there after I shanked my first shot off the tee Sunday, those immortal words from 38 years ago wafted through my mind. Slightly altered, of course.
One small swing for man, one giant slice for Bone.
"Swing, swing, swing, from the tangles of, my heart is crushed by a former love. Can you help me find a way to carry on again?"
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