Editors are trollish pricks. That’s why they’re editors and not writers. Someone has to man the literary straight-jackets, don’t they? Editors have the vitally important task of ensuring nothing and nobody gets outside the box. Uniformity must be maintained against the chaotic onslaught of stylistic distinction. Let’s hear it for The Editors — without them we’d be free. And what fun would that be?
For all you would-be Editors out there, would you do me the service of editing the transcript of this interview I conducted with The Communications Director of the Islamic State this past Christmas? I’ve gone over it with a Fine-Tooth Comb ten times now at least, but you can never be sure. It would be nice to have some fresh, aspiring professional eyes take a look-see and point out any mistakes I might have missed. Thank you for your cooperation and assistance in advance. Like Jordan Spieth, you’re a man for others. That’s the Dallas Jesuit College Preparatory School motto, by the way. How do I know? It’s my alma mater and I live the credo every day.
Now, back to Golf. Let’s cut to the chase, shall we? Golf, like God before it, is dead. The tragedy is not the death itself, but rather the sad and pathetic fact no one, or hardly anyone, recognizes The Passing. Watching Golf these days is like watching Weekend at Bernie’s. For you editors out there, Bernie is metaphor for Golf and please excuse that comma — I couldn’t resist.
The irony is, Arnold Palmer, The King, set the stage for its ultimate demise. He brought Big Corporate Money into the picture and Big Corporate Money is like a cancer that takes over its host until the host is dead. What’s even more insidious though, is Big Corporate Money via The Power of Illusion (Marketing) can hide death from the gullible and unwitting rubes and present it as vibrant vitality.
That Big Corporate Money environment engendered and enabled by Arnie spawned the perfect symbol of Golf’s ultimate death and destruction — Tiger Woods. Like The Civil Rights Movement and Martin Luther King, Golf, usurped by corporate sponsorship, put all its eggs in Tiger’s basket just as The Civil Rights Movement put all its eggs in MLK’s basket. When MLK died, so did The REAL Civil Rights Movement and when Tiger’s career disintegrated, so too did True Golf (to be confused with True Detective).
To put things in perspective, think back to Byron Nelson’s amazing 1945 season when he won 18 out of the 30 tournaments he entered and 11 consecutively. He asserted his motivation was to win enough money to buy a ranch and retire to it. Wrap your head around that. He had to win that many tournaments to buy a ranch — and this was at a time when real estate prices had hit rock bottom after The Depression and land was for the taking. The point being, back then the players really earned their prize money. Today, we have players who have never won a tournament, or maybe they’ve won one or two but not a Major, flying into Major Championships like The Masters on private jets. And that’s simply ridiculous. That’s Bat Shit Crazy. That’s Our World.
What killed Golf? Mainstreamism & Science — the same thing that killed any notion of God. Golf went Mainstream and Golf became a Science rather than the Art it once was. Mainstreamism & Science destroy the natural and organic essence of anything good and decent and transform it into homologous mush and mediocrity. Style and distinction are replaced with uniformity and conformity. The good and decent is institutionalized and institutionalization is death where glorious potential is entombed in a many miles wide synthetically sculpted concrete sarcophagus.
Truth be told, but seldom is, I’m just as guilty as all the rest. Yes, I’m a hypocrite — I fully admit it. To live in THIS world is to be a hypocrite. To deny that is to be the worst sort of hypocrite. I spend Weekends at Bernie’s on occasion as I will next weekend watching the U.S. Open, whooping it up (okay, maybe snoring instead) and pretending all is well in the garden (thank you Chauncey Gardner) when in fact it’s a perpetual funeral of sorts — New Orleans style. I’ll be watching The Dead Cat Bounce — once again. One wonders how many bounces the Goddamn Cat has in it. Nine? Maybe. Who cares anyway? Not me. Not anymore.
Zed’s Dead, baby, Zed’s Dead.