Obviously, You're Not A Golfer

Golf; I’m not a fan. Do I appreciate that to play well it takes skill and discipline? In the same way that I appreciate how much it must suck when you ruin a pair of panties while on your period – it will not effect me personally.

Dad likes golf. Dad gets off on golf. Golf is like wicked crazy sex all done up on weed, coke and nitrous to my dad. Kind of, I personally wouldn’t want to invite my son to the above mentioned metaphor, but Dad was pretty insistent on my doing some golfing with him in Mexico.

I tried to make it pretty clear that I wasn’t into golf. I had played it once, and again I can see why people would dig it, but I get what some people get from golf from other things: that sort of zen concentration from artistic endeavors, self delusional idea of “exercise” from bowling, massive beer drinking from going to bars. It was as if Dad couldn’t hear me say that I did not enjoy golf.

So I was a bit miffed when I ended up on the empty road to the golf course, on an unfinished resort, after several days of subtle, and not so subtle, hints that I was not going to enjoy golfing. And while I was trying to remember that I was there for Dad and celebrating his birthday, it turned out I did not in fact enjoy golfing.

Bless his golf porn heart, Dad was trying to give me pointers on how to improve my game. I finally had to look at him straight and tell him that this was definitely not something that I would be doing again, and that he could stop. Things improved a bit when my brother was able to back track to the car round those standing guard on the empty dunes of Paradise Perfected and bring us back some Tecate. And then there was the tooling around in the golf cart, and talking about how much fun it would be to roll that cart.

It’s very difficult to roll a golf cart, my brother tells me knowingly.

Did I get anything out of the day? There was a perverse giggle issued when I slammed a ball across a water hazard, skipping it across the water like a stone and almost making it to the other side. And this sense of frustration that the trip was about over and I spent a full day doing something I do not like.

Which brings me to this: I was telling Biffy about how this part of Mexico would not make my vote for Most Awesome Place. She let me know that I was hard to please. I don’t necessarily agree with that, but it makes me think of the postings about this trip.

I certainly don’t want to make it seem like I didn’t appreciate the opportunity to be able to take a vacation like this, or that I didn’t have a great time. I find it often more entertaining to write with a smart ass, biting tone.

As a whole, the trip was relaxing and I will hold onto the great stuff for so much longer than the petty complaints. I’ll remember the nice, subtle sunsets and the sunrises even more glorious in their unshowy hues. I’ll remember trying to point out stars to each other in the utterly clear skies by making an imaginary clock in the sky, and laughing intensely when the clock’s center continued to change depending on the person. I’ll remember switching cooking shifts, cooking together, drinking together, being a full family together for the first time ever. I’ll remember my brother meeting his nephew for the first time, a meeting that I knew meant a lot to me, but I did not realize how it would somehow lock something intangible together inside of me. I’ll remember sitting with my brother, joking and egging each other on and eventually talking like close friends who had literally known each other forever.

I’ll remember how difficult it was to end that goodbye hug when he left for town, for a bus, for a plane back to Costa Rica; how tired it would make me.


Feb(r)uary Song of the Day: With the mini Built to Spill epic seeming to finish this thing up nicely, I want to throw your way one more song to echo the extra day for the month. For this leap year day, I bring you “The Piano Has Been Drinking (Not Me)” by Tom Waits.