I read a book, by a humorous writer, first name Carl, I think, with a funny last name with two identical vowels side by side, in which a minor character collected those home made crosses that are left on highways and byways all over America, as memorials for people who died in traffic accidents. Locally we have Hwy 138 which has a nice collection of them.
This particular one is out in Phelan, on Phelan Road. It's quite elaborate, as these things go:
Tomorrow I, along with Big-T and the gang, are playing a golf course on a former military base, The General Old Course at March AFB. Many of the holes have plaques on the tees naming different officers who did notables things for the game of golf.
This one isn't one of them, but it's typical of the genre:
Team captain... That's a lot of responsibility and I can't help but wonder if it didn't contribute to his demise.
I have myself convinced that when I'm bored with being old and decrepit, I'm going to hike out into the desert with some very fine strawberry wine and high powered sedatives and give myself to the coyotes. 100 years after that tragic event, no one will remember my name and my the pixels of my blogs will have evaporated into the ionosphere, to lock in adulterous embrace with cosmic rays.
I am a romantic nihilist.
5 comments:
You old softie! I imagine that's the first time you've been called that in a non-romantic setting (I'm sure the wine was to blame).
I don't know that I could ever handle team captaincy, except in hockey, because I really like having large "Cs" sewn on my clothing.
And I don't have the energy to make any makeshift shrines to my friends, so they better not die in any car accidents.
Golf is a very stressful game. I'm surprised your doctor allows you to play in your condition.
Bert shot the low round (that's a good thing) collected $7.25 from me (that's a bad thing) and drove away almost too soon. He left his hardcover book and pen on the dining room table, -probably because he was too busy trying to stuff all that money into his already-fat wallet and eat my extra French fries.
I saved his book (about some moral buffoon and his three illegitimate daughters), by running in front of his work wagon before he could hit the 215 freeway. -Not even a thanks.
I thought about making him the next recipient of one of those plaques...
Here's the thing about revenge: plotting it is always better than exacting it. I suggest you shove your rage deep down inside and spend all your waking hours plotting ever-more-insidious ways to mildly inconvenience him.
PAD - Hell with that, -you got a shovel?
Na, I'll have my vengeance, but in a deviously slow and methodical round of golf.
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