Got a ticket to the Masters, and what a place it is.
More ugly clothes there than at JC Penney. More overweight white folk than there are seats in (all) Waffle Houses. And oh-my-gosh, how beautiful the grounds are.
Golfers are strange folk. Or perhaps I was the strange one there. While others have their little cameras taking shots of Tiger Woods from about eight miles away, I'm using my heavy-duty telephoto on dogwood flowers fifteen feet away. Phil Mickelson is there putting, but geez, the Wisteria on the trees nearby are amazing.
It's not that I wasn't impressed. I mean, heck, any sport where the guy carrying the bag and pulling clubs out of it gets paid millions must be something, eh? And to be able to hit a little white ball that far and accurately is quite an aspiration. No wonder doctors don't feel like they've accomplished anything until they get somewhere close to par.
I did see a very nice shirt, though, in the pro shop. It was green, with about five stripes, and a price tag that would make the wearer feel either a) like they had arrived for being able to afford it, or b) like a schmuck for paying that much for something they could have gotten at clearance in Target, just without the really cool (hideous) logo. I do admit, though, to almost coughing up for a long sleeve shirt that truly was gorgeous. Instead, I coughed up something else when they said it was $149.
But all in all, walking in the 90 degree, humid and sunny day for a couple/few miles to watch really silly looking men walk hundreds of yards to hit the little ball over and over wasn't totally without merit. I did get to eat a BBQ sandwich made of possum or some other roadkill, something I've never done before. Not everywhere one can get a meal as wretched as that, unless of course one scrapes the floor under the refrigerator and slaps it on a bun with some orange mayonaise.
A memorable event did occur at the 17th green. It involved a yellow (or was it orange) dress with lots of view and no bra. I'm thinking that was the entertainment?
More ugly clothes there than at JC Penney. More overweight white folk than there are seats in (all) Waffle Houses. And oh-my-gosh, how beautiful the grounds are.
Golfers are strange folk. Or perhaps I was the strange one there. While others have their little cameras taking shots of Tiger Woods from about eight miles away, I'm using my heavy-duty telephoto on dogwood flowers fifteen feet away. Phil Mickelson is there putting, but geez, the Wisteria on the trees nearby are amazing.
It's not that I wasn't impressed. I mean, heck, any sport where the guy carrying the bag and pulling clubs out of it gets paid millions must be something, eh? And to be able to hit a little white ball that far and accurately is quite an aspiration. No wonder doctors don't feel like they've accomplished anything until they get somewhere close to par.
I did see a very nice shirt, though, in the pro shop. It was green, with about five stripes, and a price tag that would make the wearer feel either a) like they had arrived for being able to afford it, or b) like a schmuck for paying that much for something they could have gotten at clearance in Target, just without the really cool (hideous) logo. I do admit, though, to almost coughing up for a long sleeve shirt that truly was gorgeous. Instead, I coughed up something else when they said it was $149.
But all in all, walking in the 90 degree, humid and sunny day for a couple/few miles to watch really silly looking men walk hundreds of yards to hit the little ball over and over wasn't totally without merit. I did get to eat a BBQ sandwich made of possum or some other roadkill, something I've never done before. Not everywhere one can get a meal as wretched as that, unless of course one scrapes the floor under the refrigerator and slaps it on a bun with some orange mayonaise.
A memorable event did occur at the 17th green. It involved a yellow (or was it orange) dress with lots of view and no bra. I'm thinking that was the entertainment?
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you are totally forgiven, no worries ;]