So on Tuesday night, I had my first golf lesson -- part of a five-session class I signed up for through Continuing Education. I think it was apt that the instructor had us use whiffle balls as I totally whiffed.
I'd like to think it was because the instructor was a bit of a swaggering jerk who spent most of his time schmoozing with the guys who already knew how to swing a golf club -- and because the class was oversubscribed, which meant he couldn't spend more than a few seconds with each person.
His advice to me: Relax. For this I paid good money -- and missed the first half of "American Idol"? Sheesh. I admit, a good part of my inability to loft the ball was emotional -- the ghost of my late father, a one-time scratch golfer, loomed above me (figuratively, though you never know). But good, hands-on instruction goes a long way (certainly a lot farther than any of the balls I hit Tuesday night).
Despite my daughter giving me permission to quit after just one session, I'm not ready to lay down my club just yet. That would set a very bad example, and I have to believe I can only get better. We shall see.
In other news... Came across this little gem in the NYTimes.com this week. (Despite the date of publication, it isn't a joke.) It's a discussion of a new book called I Could Tell You But Then You Would Have to be Destroyed by Me: Emblems from the Pentagon's Black World by Trevor Paglen -- and it's hysterical, in a military-industrial complex, Dick Cheney, Dr. Strangelove kind of way.
As reporter William J. Broad writes in the NYTimes.com article: “'It’s a fresh approach to secret government,' Steven Aftergood [as opposed to "Beforebad"?], a security expert at the Federation of American Scientists in Washington, said in an interview. 'It shows that these secret programs have their own culture, vocabulary and even sense of humor.'”
Blowing up things certainly is funny! But seriously folks... I have to admit that some of the emblems, that is patches (just like the kind you might put on a Girl or Boy Scout uniform!), really are clever.
Again, to quote from Mr. Broad's well-written article:
"One patch shows a space alien with huge eyes holding a stealth bomber near its mouth. 'To Serve Man' reads the text above, a reference to a classic 'Twilight Zone' episode in which man is the entree, not the customer. 'Gustatus Similis Pullus' reads the caption below, dog Latin for 'Tastes Like Chicken.'”
Those wacky Black Ops guys!
To learn more about our tax dollars hard at work, do check out the article and/or the book. (Just click on the highlighted text.)
Lastly, speaking of fun and politics and tax dollars hard at work, here's a fun way/place to spend some of your tax refund. Enjoy!
Thursday, April 3, 2008
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4 comments:
I've never thought of you as a whiffer. Or a waffler. Nor a waddler. I think I need waffle. Or a pancake.
Please tape the next golf lesson. Videos for posterity. YouTube and all that!
Might I suggest you hire a "real" golf instructor? Worth every penny.
The gentleman (for lack of a better word) teaching the course IS a pro -- as he told us at the beginning of class, dropping several names of people he knows or who come to him for lessons or clubs at his shop. (I wanted to cut him off and say "Oh yeah?! Well my dad, who was a scratch golfer in his youth, played with so-and-so and so-and-so!" But for once I held my tongue and just stood there and smiled.)
But yes, I have considered private lessons and may take one or two this summer, if I can find a pro I like, who doesn't feel it necessary to condescend to petite females.
As part of the Phys Ed requirement at college (elite northeastern lib arts bastion, don't you know, plus men were allowed) I took a half-semester course in golf. A week or so into the class, after we had all more or less chipped onto the green, our instructor told us that anyone who could roll the ball into the hole from where their ball lay could pass out of the class. Everyone else rolled and missed. I rolled, hit the cup dead-on, waved and walked away. You could say everyone else was - wait for it - "teed off." Actually i'm surprised no one came after me with a long iron, although I think J should stick with a sand wedge, being a chick and all.
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