Fear and Loathing at the Buick Invitational
Look closely. At first glance, you may say, okay, that's a small bathroom. Then you blink, think of more pleasant thoughts, and resume your daily meanderings. Today, however, is not a day where I can allow you to look away. It pains me, in fact, to suggest that this would be your response to such a vision; yea, I shalt admit that if presented with such stark toiletation, I would perhaps affect a similar response. Affect, I say, for it would be but an affectation. To think, I, in face of such toiletalitarianism, would be swayed to negate the very CORE of my being, all for which I stand? You forget your author, and I assume too much from my readers. But I shan't assume again, for when I do such, Dear Reader, it merely makes an ass of both myself and thine.
So look closer.
"Say," you might perhaps.. say.. , "Isn't that a shower curtain?"
"Exactly," my Holmes would say to your Watson. "Carry on, young investigator!"
"So that's really a .... shower?"
"PRECISELY! And that would mean that..."
"By Jove, sir! There's a Toilet in the Shower!"
"You've done it, young adept of life's mystery."
"But sir.." spaketh the adept, "Why?"
I could not answer my apprentice, for the evil, if spoken, could then be considered bespoken, and we all would be doomed, or perhaps even damned, to a greater extent than usual. And by that I mean... more than usual.
This photo is perhaps the summation to a week and weekend which could only be considered .. unclassifiable. Lovecraftian, in its very .... inability to be classified. For meditative purposes, I decided to smoke a cigarette, for the clearing of the mind be always mine own greatest mission. This clarity led me to the discovery that my cigarettes lay in the middle of the driveway, having been run over by mine own vehicle. Perhaps by me. On Friday, I was the willing passenger in my own vehicle, having relinquished the onus (and the ability) of driving to another. Upon exit, cigarettes off my lap, onto the ground. Next day, wake up, drive over them on return from the morning coffee run. Lucily, the car merely rode over the pack, so it lay, bruised but salvageable, underneath the carriage of the car, not, like many (and one specifically) characters of Hesse's oeuvre, crushed, Beneath the Wheel.
The weekend climaxed (and really, like a typical weekend, just rolls over and goes to sleep afterwards) with a trip to the Buick Invitational, since I got the free ticket kickdown by a loving friend. I got to see all the heavy hitters; Mickelson, Woods, Garcia, et al. Jim Nantz even drove by me in a golf cart. Looked just like I thought he would, too. Big dude. Standing against the rope boundary, I turned to see Davis Love III walking two feet away, up towards the tenth tee box. It still felt like T.V. There were still rope fences, policemen, security, people with customized golf standing chairs. Once the last group (Tiger, Sergio Garcia, some other guy) had played the 15th, I went and used the Players Only Porta-Potty. Some golfers had definitely taken some shits in there, but by jove it was certainly one of the cleanest porta-potties I have ever experienced. As I contemplated the Professional Origins of the most recent shit pile below (Too small for John Daly or Craig Statler, probably more like a David Toms or a Justin Leonard effort), I felt the presence of greatness. I was in the company of champions.
As it turned out, this discussion of toiletry worked perfectly as an analogous comparison to the penultimate conclusion of the match. At the 18th green I sat (in the stands, special pass, bitches), awaiting the arrival of the three players involved in the sudden-death extra hole playoff; Tiger Woods, Jose Maria Olazabul, and Something Green from Australia. I forget his first name, and frankly, I should. He had the perfect drive, outdistancing Tiger and J.M.O. His second shot, however, flew off to the left of the green and into the stands. Lucklily for him, free drop, since it's a manmade hazard. And then, dear Reader, not since Najeh Davenport left the messy Kryzewski in that poor co-ed's laundry basket has a sports figure done something so inexcusable. Homeboy green mishits his chip, then COMPLETELY FLUBS his second chip as well. Goes Two Inches. Game over that guy. (Which is too bad; he had a great tournament and a sweet eagle that I got to see firsthand).
So then we go Tiger and Olazabul. Next hole. Tiger drives green, two putts, par. Jose Maria Olazabal drives into the sand trap, but hits an absolutely perfect recovery chip. Two feet to the hole. Lines it up. Hits it. COMPLETE, UTTER FAILURE: MISS. Tiger wins, and even he's embarassed for J.M.O.
I didn't even get to see it live, since the hordes leaving the 18th green bottlenecked all traffic, and the match was over soon after (a quick par 3, thank you very much, there's cab fare on the dresser). I got to see it on a big screen TV from the sidelines of the 17th fairway.
As I walked away from the fabled South Course of Torrey Pines Municipal (where I once shot a 104, bitches), I felt comfortable, safe in the knowledge that the world is slowly warping to adjust to mine own level of disreputableness and disappointment, as indicated by the lackluster display of professionalism and skill exhitited before me.
I do thank the day, however, for providing me with one certainty : Like the unknown professional did before me, it's always better to shit in the cozy confines of the Players Only porta-potty than to emulate Jose Maria Olazabul and that Green guy, who in their losing efforts, shat directly on the Green, the PGA Tour, and thusly, on their very Selves.