I’ve been thinking about writing something for awhile. However, I’ve been having one major problem. I can’t stay focused on any one thing long enough to form two cohesive paragraphs. I’ve lost track of how many posts I’ve started, deleted, and started again.
Is it possible? Could I be a distracted geezer?
I have to consider the possibility, but it’s not like I have a lots of stuff on my mind. Back when I was a psych nurse, I had a lots of stuff flying through my head. Did I sign off all the meds I passed? Why do they call them woodchucks? Don’t forget to order labs on the Clozaril patients tomorrow… Who came up with the word kumquat?
Maybe that’s part of the problem. I live an essentially stress free life now. I no longer have to wonder about much of anything, though I do still think about kumquats from time to time.
Seeing how I’ve been unable to focus on anything in specific, I’m reduced to trying to write about nothing in general. It’s not my favorite thing to do, but I’ve been told it’s something I’m quite good at. I hope that holds true today. And probably the next time, too.
* * * *
There has been one thing that’s been on my mind, and that one thing is golf. Which, in retrospect, shows how narrow my focus of thought has become. I seem to have hit an impasse regarding improving my game. My score has been more or less stuck in the mid-fifties for several months, which is roughly twenty over par.
Twenty over par is the score of a bad golfer, and even though I know I suck at golf, I am not a bad golfer. And, yes, I’m aware of the contradictory nature of that sentence.
I watched The Masters Tournament last week. I wish I could golf as bad as Tiger Woods. One of the commentators said something about the mental aspect of golf. As Yogi Berra once said, “Half of this game is ninety percent mental.” The commentator said something very much like unto that about becoming a better golfer. The answer, it seems, lies hidden somewhere in my head.
My fundamentals are improving. I need to focus my mind. I’m still unsure about what that entails. I’m trying to remember what my dad used to tell me back when we used to play golf.
“Get your goddamn head out of your ass, McOffspring!”
Well, it’s a start… I’m sure he said other things, too. I’ll have to think about it a bit more.
* * * *
When Phyllis and I were golfing last week, our caddy kept talking about my clubs. I’m used to having people make fun of my clubs. So I assumed he was also making fun of them, except he was doing it in Spanish, and that was something new.
Our caddy is a Mexican guy named Salvador Allende Ribiera del Lago Hernandez. He’s tall and lanky, with teeth like a mule. As with many Mexicans, his age is hard to determine. He’s somewhere between fifty and one hundred and fifty years old.
Salvador was our caddy the first time we played here. Phyllis almost killed him with one of her shots. I almost killed him twice. Despite our attempts on his life, Salvador continues to willingly caddy for us. He actually seems to like us, and I make sure I say hi to him and shake his hand every time I see him.
I get a kick out of Salvador. He tends to talk to himself a lots in broken English and fluent Spanish while he caddies. Maybe he hears voices(?). It’s possible his voices are telling him how much we suck, and he’s defending us. I’m just guessing. I know enough Spanish to know he’s talking about our shots, but not enough to understand all of the context.
At any rate, Salvador kept saying something to me about “two clubs” last week. And the next time we golfed, I found out what he meant. He had two golf clubs that had been made in the 21st Century. And he presented them to me.
“Try. Try the clubs. You like, you keep.”
I couldn’t believe it. They were beautiful clubs. Callaways. Metal woods. They weren’t brand new, but either one of them would’ve originally cost more than all of my antique clubs combined. All of my woods are so old they’re actually made of wood. So I put the clubs in my bag and tried to figure out how to say, Thanks, but no thanks, in Spanish.
I played the first two holes using my antique clubs, then Phyllis pulled me aside and told me to try Salvador’s clubs.
“What do you have to lose? Give ’em a try. You might actually like them.”
So I grabbed the oversized driver that looks like a clown’s golf club. It’s called a Big Bertha, but I gave it a new name: The Terminator.
My drive went one hundred yards farther than I have ever hit a golf ball. I was so happy I think I might have humped Salvador’s leg. And Phyllis spent the rest of the game smiling that I Told You So smile of hers.
At the end of our round, I asked Salvador how much he wanted for his clubs.
“For you, señor, nothing. I give to you.”
What a guy! But I couldn’t let him just give me his clubs, so I gave him one thousand pesos for his caddying services. The usual and customary fee for a caddy is around one hundred and fifty pesos.
I have no idea how or where Salvador acquired the clubs, but he seemed pretty happy with the fact that he had given me two golf clubs that I liked, and that I had given him the best tip he’s ever had caddying for gringos.
Then another unexpected thing happened. Phyllis looked at my antique clubs and said, “You know, I have another set of clubs. They’re a man’s set, and they have to be newer than yours. Five hundred pesos.”
I know that sounds like a lots of money, but it’s roughly twenty-five bucks.
My antique golf clubs were made in the early 1960’s. John F. Kennedy was President when they were new. They’re almost as old as I am. Phyllis’ other clubs are probably from the 1980’s. And like many people my age, I love the Eighties. It’s the last time we remember being young.
I now have what essentially amounts to a new set of golf clubs that are considerably younger than me for about seventy-five bucks. And none of my woods are actually made of wood anymore.
For the longest time I’ve resisted embracing any new technology. Computers. Cellphones. CD’s. DVD’s. Mobile devices. Golf clubs. And once I finally took the plunge, I’ve always ended up wondering why I fought such a pointless battle against something I actually like and seemingly makes my life easier.
It’s probably an old guy, old school thing, even though I know was doing it long before I became officially old. Resist change at all costs, even though it’s the only constant in life. Therefore, there’s no logical explanation for it. Much like life itself.
* * * *
And now, on to the random thoughts that have been occupying my mind:
If humans are the most advanced species on this planet, why are we the only ones that need toilet paper? And what would a real bear do if you gave it a roll of Charmin®?
What’s the opposite of supercalifragilisticexpialidocious?
Advertisers use a lots of rock and roll songs to promote their products. Maybe rock bands should start writing songs about the things we buy. Orajel is the Answer. My Mercedes. Pass the Polygrip. It’d probably make life easier for all of us.
What the hell is a kumquat? It sounds pornographic…
Do you ever make up nonsense lyrics to songs? There’s one group you can’t do that to. America. Remember A Horse With No Name? The lyrics are so inane that anything nonsensical you come up with makes more sense than the original lyrics. Go ahead, try it.
We’ve been living in the End of Times ever since the death and resurrection of Jesus. I wonder how much longer that will go on?
* * * *
I could probably ramble on for a few more hours about random thoughts in my head, but they’re too ethereal for even me to keep track of. Yesterday’s profundity is today’s mystery. It’s like unto a kiss in dream. Did that really happen? It seemed real.
Now that I’ve gotten some of my idle thoughts out of my head, maybe I can focus on something that isn’t quite so…frivolous. Maybe. Only time will tell.
How do you say kumquat in Spanish?