New Apartment

I'm sorry my recent posts have been a little flat, but I've been under a lot of stress lately to find a place to live, and until today I've been in a pretty rare mood. But what can I say? I had to be picky about my final selection, seeing as how I've got this blog I enjoy to update and I'm trying to live in an area where nothing is more important than location. I suppose that's true no matter where you go, but here it is essential. So I needed to find a well-positioned apartment with cheap internet access around the Northern Virginia/D.C. area. Okay, no problem. This is only one of the most difficult areas in the United States to live. I mean, it didn't help that I had some other things going on too, but to be honest, finding an apartment would solve most of that other crap. So with the pressure on, I stepped up today and found a place to live. Got a pretty good deal on it too.

So I got that going for me, which is nice.

I asked for the day off today to figure these things out, and I have to say, I think I've made a good impression on the boss so far because he didn't even hesitate or ask any questions about my request. He just checked it off and wished me luck with "whatever."

So I slayed some demons today and found a place to live. I feel a lot better about where my life is headed.

Alrighty then. Let's get started.

When I walked in yesterday the caddies were having quite a discussion about a gay member at the club. They said they all felt "dirtier" after caddying for this guy, and even though their stories seemed a little weird and/or far-fetched, they all seemed to be in agreement: this guy doesn't tip well and you feel like you've been molested after you finish your loop.

Sounds like a winning combination. This member was apparently going to be playing soon, and so they were all sharing these war stories in order to justify their excuses for not wanting to loop for him. Being the newbie, I just assumed I was going to have to take one for the team and caddie for him, so when one of the staff members went around the room and asked if anyone wanted to caddie for this guy, I just saved everyone the trouble and raised my hand.

Everyone was shocked. "Really? Why would you willfully do that to yourself? Are you nuts?"

In the back of my mind, I'm thinking: hey, I went to a pretty liberal university and I minored in Theatre. I had a few gay friends. Perhaps the caddies here just don't know how to handle this guy. I mean, it's not like he's going to molest you on the course.

But it was a no-go. Somebody else was assigned. Man that caddie looked depressed. I was the only person laughing when he walked outside to wet his towel. I mean, I guess I felt bad for laughing, but the guy looked like his life was over when he found out his assignment. All of the other caddies had the same expressions as they sat there with these incredibly somber looks on their faces. I just can't believe EVERY caddie would be so reluctant to work with this guy. Well, I'm sure I'll get him at some point. You better believe I'll be posting on THAT particular day.

Instead, I ended up being paired with 3 Japanese men and a white guy. I certainly appreciated being put out on a loop so soon. Later I would find out exactly WHY I was selected so quickly.

Not only were they all pretty bad, but they were TERRIBLE tippers (but we'll get to the tip in a little bit). In all honesty, I can handle bad golf. I mean, everyone has to be bad at some point. My biggest problem with these guys was that they made me laugh so much. You may not think that's a problem, but when you're the only one laughing and you've got a tip on the line, you feel like an ass. It's not like I was laughing at their swings. I was laughing at the noises they would make after they hit a bad shot. It sounded like somebody was waxing their legs or something. It was one of those painful screams where they didn't sound like they were in any danger, they just seemed incredibly surprised at the amount of pain they were experiencing. And as soon as the scream was over with, they would laugh and quickly walk 20 feet left to hit their next shot. It was quite a sight.

In addition, the worst golfer of the bunch was very particular about his yardages.

"How fa?"

"167."

Chunk.

"AIIYYYYEEEEAAAA!!"

Chuckle.

"How fa?"

"164."

Shank.

"MOOOOYIIIIIIEEEE!!"

Pause.

"How faaaaAAAAIIIYYEEEE!!"

And I learned very quickly only to give ONE yardage. I think I've talked about this before, but you NEVER give a foreigner any more than one yardage. You can't go into a discussion like: "Well, you have 132 to the front and 145 to the flag, but there's a ridge in the middle of the green that will feed the ball down towards the flag, so you would be wise to hit a 140-club."

Nope. This is what they hear and think about: "Blah blah 132 (which is how many in meters?) blah blah blah 145 (is this the new distance?) blah blah fart-bag blah bitch blah blah 140 (140? What is he talking about now?)."

Instead of asking a question or telling you they do not understand, they choose to stand there and continue to nod. And you know they're not paying attention. They can't be. I told one of these guys two distances at one point (earlier in the round): "Mr. Japan, you have 143 to the front and 170 to the flag. There's a little wind comin' at us too, so you may want to add a club."

So he's just standing there--chillin' no doubt--nodding and smiling with a club in his hands. It was an iron, and from what I've seen from him today, I would've expected that he reach for a wood or maybe a scotch. But nope. He just smiles at me, looks at the flag, and hits the ball 30 yards short. Mmhmm.

Back to this guy who was squealing all day. On the 12th hole, his hits his drive 20 yards (a D.O. by U.S.G.A. standards) and then pull-hooks his second shot over into the lateral hazard. The thing was, I saw where it hopped in. So I was on the prowl.

Lo and behold, I found it DEEP in the weeds. You could barely see the hole much less the ball from where we stood. I was hoping I could see him try to slash it out of there, but he chickened out at the last second and took a drop. But either way, I was proud of myself for finding it. I had upheld the number one rule in caddying: YE SHALL NEVER LOSE A PLAYERS BALL.

Well, I upheld rule number one until his next shot, where he snapped it left AGAIN into the same stuff.

Come ON man! I just got it out of there for you! Why didn't you just aim right!?

So I lost it. What a let down. But of course he had 3 dozen Top-Flite's in his bag, so there was nothing to worry about. Walmart had his back. I think we've all been there. I think I already mentioned that I once bought a putter from Walmart that looked like a Scotty Cameron and kicked some ass for all of two weeks. Of course by the third week there were scratches and dings all over the thing, but for those two weeks, I was a God. But you know what? That's neither here nor there.

That's pretty much how my day went. Chasing the ball around for one of them with the occasional catering to the other three. And at the end, Mr. Japan screwed me on the tip. The white guy in the group followed me into the caddie room afterwards and checked with me to make sure I had received enough of a tip because he thought I did a good job. When he saw what I had received, he threw in a little extra, which of course helped, but it was still a let-down.
You know what? That's alright. It was a nice gesture and I'm sure I didn't deserve any more anyway because I wasn't able to keep a straight face half the time because of those squeals.

I still have not seen "Deliverance." I'm not sure I'll ever get around to it, although I have seen Pulp Fiction (one of the best movies of all time), and so I guess I could handle watching a guy squeal like a pig if I had to. But I certainly got my fill of watching a man get screwed by the course today. I'm sure it won't be the last time.