4 pictures, 3 games thus far, although picture #4 anticipates the result of the upcoming encounter with Peyton Manning and crew.
Thursday, September 26, 2013
Football Season
I was going through some pictures on my phone and found it amusing that 4 consecutive photos that I had snapped of Maya pretty much perfectly sum up the progression of the Eagles season thus far.
4 pictures, 3 games thus far, although picture #4 anticipates the result of the upcoming encounter with Peyton Manning and crew.
4 pictures, 3 games thus far, although picture #4 anticipates the result of the upcoming encounter with Peyton Manning and crew.
Wednesday, September 25, 2013
Just when it seems hopeless
I went golfing with Dr Evil a few weeks ago. Redhawk. Temecula. Temperature forecast is for a high of 102. We're teeing it up at 2pm. Don't insult me with your god damned golf carts, we're walking. I've got a water bottle filled with vodka and grape juice (all I had in the fridge) and 6 cold beers stuffed into my golf bag. We are men and we shall golf!
We get set to tee off and life is splendid. The only problem is, my lower back is inflamed. It's either from the uber manly big weights I've been dead lifting lately, or from constantly kowtowing to Maya's demands to be carried everywhere even though she's probably closing in on 40lbs. No matter the cause, my back hurts and that is not good for golf. Over the 17 years of my golf career, all without a lesson, I've developed a baseline skill set that lets me hack it around with enough consistency to make the game enjoyable. Today however, the immobility of my lower back has me trying to overcompensate with my hands, resulting in repeated, hideous, very much not enjoyable snap hooks. I've also committed the critical strategic error of offering to drive Dr E to the course, thus preventing myself from getting pre-shitfaced and adequately numbing the pain. So, here I am, playing the worst fucking round that I've ever played with Dr E. He, meanwhile, is playing the best round that he's ever played with me. He smoothly goes fairway to green while I meander through the bushes in an interminable series of golfing misadventures. I'm feeling the frustration build, and build, and build, and I'm barely holding it together. I'd say that I beat Dr E about 70% of the time that we go golfing, but as we walk up to the 8th green, he's looking at a birdie putt to go back to -1 and I'm 16 strokes behind. I bet him drinks and dinner that I will beat him on the back 9. He does not take long to accept the bet. Dr E chokes his way to a +1 37 on the front 9, while I card a smoooooth 54.
The back 9 commences and the alcohol is starting to settle in a little. I'm done with my vodka and have moved on to my beer, and the fresh start that comes with my bet has temporarily relieved some of my frustration. Through the first 3 holes of the back 9, I find myself one stroke behind. Manageable. I tee off on the 13th, make decent contact with the ball, which starts off to the right and then hooks back sharply into the fairway. Ugly, but I'll take it. Dr E then steps up and hits a pretty high fade that settles right into the middle of the fairway. He immediately starts gushing over himself, blathering about how that is exactly how he envisioned his swing, his contact with the ball, and the ball flight, and the whole experience just satisfies him immensely. Shithead. We trudge towards our balls, and I set up over my shot, which had come to rest a good 30 yards behind Dr E's masterpiece. I hit a miserable semi-shank into the rough to the right of the green, while Dr E puts his ball to about 12 feet of the cup. I walk up to the green, find my ball in a shitty lie, and hit a shitty pitch that overshoots the green. Steam. Pressure. Rising. This is rapidly falling apart. I walk over to my ball and promptly hit another pitch that overshoots the flag by about 30 feet. Dr E smirks, as he's marked his ball and is enjoying watching my odyssey while he awaits his birdie putt. Fuck it. I take my pitching wedge and throw it as far as I can. It bounces and cartwheels a few times and comes to rest in the street adjacent to the course. Oh GAWD that felt good. I grab another iron from my bag and throw that one too. Squirt, squirt. I frantically grab another one and fling that too. Squirt, squirt, squirt. Oh, what a release! After changing my underwear, I march over to my ball infinitely more prepared for the inevitable 3 putt that will just about guarantee my doom. At this point Dr E calmly mentions, "I think I hit your ball." I look at the ball in his hand, and look at the ball I'm about to putt, and realize that he's right. With the spectacle he created by fawning all over himself after his first shot, both of us temporarily forgot that he's a giant pussy with no distance off the tee. What do we do? We decide that after I retrieve my clubs, especially the one still lying in the street, we will go back and replay our shots from the correct spots on fairway, disregarding the two stroke penalty both of us should take. Fuck you USGA. Second time around, I put mine to the middle of the green and two putt for par. Dr E hacks it around for a double bogey and falls off from there. My 41 on the back easily wins the bet. Victory.
We get set to tee off and life is splendid. The only problem is, my lower back is inflamed. It's either from the uber manly big weights I've been dead lifting lately, or from constantly kowtowing to Maya's demands to be carried everywhere even though she's probably closing in on 40lbs. No matter the cause, my back hurts and that is not good for golf. Over the 17 years of my golf career, all without a lesson, I've developed a baseline skill set that lets me hack it around with enough consistency to make the game enjoyable. Today however, the immobility of my lower back has me trying to overcompensate with my hands, resulting in repeated, hideous, very much not enjoyable snap hooks. I've also committed the critical strategic error of offering to drive Dr E to the course, thus preventing myself from getting pre-shitfaced and adequately numbing the pain. So, here I am, playing the worst fucking round that I've ever played with Dr E. He, meanwhile, is playing the best round that he's ever played with me. He smoothly goes fairway to green while I meander through the bushes in an interminable series of golfing misadventures. I'm feeling the frustration build, and build, and build, and I'm barely holding it together. I'd say that I beat Dr E about 70% of the time that we go golfing, but as we walk up to the 8th green, he's looking at a birdie putt to go back to -1 and I'm 16 strokes behind. I bet him drinks and dinner that I will beat him on the back 9. He does not take long to accept the bet. Dr E chokes his way to a +1 37 on the front 9, while I card a smoooooth 54.
The back 9 commences and the alcohol is starting to settle in a little. I'm done with my vodka and have moved on to my beer, and the fresh start that comes with my bet has temporarily relieved some of my frustration. Through the first 3 holes of the back 9, I find myself one stroke behind. Manageable. I tee off on the 13th, make decent contact with the ball, which starts off to the right and then hooks back sharply into the fairway. Ugly, but I'll take it. Dr E then steps up and hits a pretty high fade that settles right into the middle of the fairway. He immediately starts gushing over himself, blathering about how that is exactly how he envisioned his swing, his contact with the ball, and the ball flight, and the whole experience just satisfies him immensely. Shithead. We trudge towards our balls, and I set up over my shot, which had come to rest a good 30 yards behind Dr E's masterpiece. I hit a miserable semi-shank into the rough to the right of the green, while Dr E puts his ball to about 12 feet of the cup. I walk up to the green, find my ball in a shitty lie, and hit a shitty pitch that overshoots the green. Steam. Pressure. Rising. This is rapidly falling apart. I walk over to my ball and promptly hit another pitch that overshoots the flag by about 30 feet. Dr E smirks, as he's marked his ball and is enjoying watching my odyssey while he awaits his birdie putt. Fuck it. I take my pitching wedge and throw it as far as I can. It bounces and cartwheels a few times and comes to rest in the street adjacent to the course. Oh GAWD that felt good. I grab another iron from my bag and throw that one too. Squirt, squirt. I frantically grab another one and fling that too. Squirt, squirt, squirt. Oh, what a release! After changing my underwear, I march over to my ball infinitely more prepared for the inevitable 3 putt that will just about guarantee my doom. At this point Dr E calmly mentions, "I think I hit your ball." I look at the ball in his hand, and look at the ball I'm about to putt, and realize that he's right. With the spectacle he created by fawning all over himself after his first shot, both of us temporarily forgot that he's a giant pussy with no distance off the tee. What do we do? We decide that after I retrieve my clubs, especially the one still lying in the street, we will go back and replay our shots from the correct spots on fairway, disregarding the two stroke penalty both of us should take. Fuck you USGA. Second time around, I put mine to the middle of the green and two putt for par. Dr E hacks it around for a double bogey and falls off from there. My 41 on the back easily wins the bet. Victory.
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