Friday, July 08, 2005

Foreigners and Lasik

So my landlord is Chinese. Just thought I’d let you guys know that. That’s cool, right? Most of the time I can’t seem to understand what the hell she’s talking about because she’s one of those foreigners who only wanted to learn “just enough” English to function in America. I mean don’t get me wrong, she’s very nice, but when she talks she’s incredibly loud and usually gives me a blank stare whenever I say something other than “hello,” “how are you” and “thank you very much.” It’s a miracle she hasn’t screwed me over somehow on rent payments.

You know, I need to make a quick aside to this INITIAL aside. Sort of a double entendre if you will. And oh my God the spell checker hasn’t picked up “entendre.” I hope that’s even a real word.

Anyway, it occurred to me while I was waiting in the drive-thru at Wendy’s that it really pays to have foreign workers who don’t speak English as employees because they’ll sell more food. If I was a franchise owner, I’d want as many foreigners as I could get my hands on. I mean think about it: You pull up into a drive thru and give your order. After you’re done shouting into the metal box, the employee either repeats it back to you or gives you the price. But with a FOREIGN employee, you’re lucky to get out of there with your original order.

“So you wan tomato and dressing?”

“I ordered a cheeseburger and fries.”

“Yeah. You wan tomato?”

“CHEESEBURGER. FRIES.”

“TOMATO.”

You know what? Fine. “YES! Give me the fucking tomato!”

“Okay. Total is $8.63. Pull up to second window.”

What is going ON in there? You guys got some poor Hindu man at gunpoint slaughtering COWS or something? Holy CRAP BALLS is that expensive.

Without exaggeration I’d say 40-50% of the time I decide to eat fast food I end up just saying “yes” to anything they say because I’m an idiot. Well, no. I’m actually trying to be considerate of the other poor souls behind me just trying to get their hands on a cheeseburger. Things need to keep moving along. So when I pull up to the window and the lady says that the meal will be $10,345.38, I simply tell that guy in the back that I’m Hindu and that I DON’T want to slaughter a freakin’ cow and he shoots me.

So where was I? I got all pissed-off again and I lost track of what my story was. Oh yeah. So my Chinese landlord. She’s moving to San Diego with her fiancé and she’s kicking me out of my room on August 1st. At first I was a little “angry,” but that same day she found me an even better place to live for the same price, so I STOPPED being so “irritated.” This new place isn’t even that far away.

So she’s moving. Great. Go have fun. But I walk into the kitchen tonight while she’s packing and I attempt to make myself some pasta when BAM. I open the cupboard and it’s empty. I open another. Still nothing. What is this? A Brother’s Grimm nursery rhyme? What, am I just supposed to eat all of my food with my HANDS? And what about those CANS I have left over? Should I take them outside and beat the crap out of them with a rock?

But, fortunately for me, the moment panic started creeping over my face my landlord came over and offered me some bowls, plates, and utensils for me to use before I move into this new place.

“YOU TAKE THIS, IS OKAY?”

Did I mention she likes to shout at me?

“HAHA. YOU TAKE. IS NO PROBLEM.”

And did I mention she MASTERED the TOEFL?

Anyway. Enough with the non-caddie/non-golf related stuff. Let’s move on to my day today.

Lately, I’ve been empathizing with Casey Martin. My legs feel INCREDIBLE. I was playing golf with a friend recently and several times during the round all hell would break loose: both of my legs would cramp up, my arches would buckle, I’d curse the original cast members of “Saved by the Bell” and I’d feel like I had been beaten with bamboo poles.

Ahh yes. Fatigue. So you can imagine when I opened my incredibly nearsighted eyes this morning and saw that it was still a little dark outside I definitely took my time getting up. I didn’t even walk into the cart barn until 8:05 am. I know, right? SACRILAGE. But never fear. I knew what I was doing. I wanted my boss to look at all of the names on the list, notice I was dead last, ask me why I even BOTHERED coming in and send me home.

Well, fortunately/unfortunately Mr. Nice-Guy was playing today. Hence, I was loopin’. At first I sharded in my pants a little bit because I really didn’t think I could handle carrying two bags, but then I heard over the radio: “He’s a single today. We just need someone who can carry one bag.”

“Tom! Get out there. He’s your boy.”

Damn right he is. And one bag? Awesome.

Now don’t look at me like that. I would GLADLY take on two bags for 36 holes. I just need to stop feeling like one of Wayne Brady’s HO’S and get a little more bounce in my step. Then I’ll be good to go.

As for the round, I’d say “routine” would be a good word to use. Lately Mr. Nice-Guy has had some problems with focus, and I was hoping we could nail down some kind of a solution today. Because his first 9-12 holes are always excellent. But then, for some strange reason, he starts sucking ball sack. A loss of focus means blocked shots and plenty of “bad” words.

And I always have to turn away to laugh because Mr. Nice-Guy is quite a “learned” individual. Highly educated. When he speaks, he will take his time and choose his words carefully. So when I see the man throw up his hands and start saying words like “fuck,” “shit,” and “tit-mouse,” I can’t help but chuckle.

Well fine. Maybe he hasn’t said “tit-mouse” yet. But I’m counting the days.

The 13th hole sticks out in my mind. Mr. Nice-Guy was putting for par from about 20 feet. Things are looking normal. He’s lining up his putt, checking out all of the angles, and motioning for me to take out the pin. Okay, so far so good. But something is amiss. For some reason, it feels like time is standing still. Everything around us feels stagnant. He throws down his towel, strikes the putt, and leaves it 10 feet short. He throws down his putter and stares off into the distance for about 5 minutes.

Obviously he’s pissed. But what the hell just happened?

It wasn’t until we were walking down the 14th fairway that he opened his mouth.

“I was TOTALLY out of it on that last putt. I wasn’t thinking about anything. I was UNCONSCIOUS. And I couldn’t do anything about it. I was just thinking: well, I’ll just putt it, right? What the fuck.”

So THAT’S why everything seemed to stand still. His mind was blank. He was sucking all logic and reason out of the air. But he brought up an interesting topic. Why do golfers do that? I do it, you do it and your MOM does it. We’re about to hit a shot and about 10 seconds before we do we forget who we are and why we’re there. Yet, for some strange reason, we still hit the shot. And of course after we do, we always curse ourselves for following through with it when we weren’t even ready.

Sometimes I fall victim to that. But only occasionally. More often than naught, I’ll lose focus because I’m busy questioning my own existence. Sounds stupid, but it’s true. I’ll be standing over a putt ready to pull back the club when all of a sudden I start reasoning through millions of years’ of evolution, from blob to blog and I start freaking out because I’m just so incredibly AMAZED that I’m on that golf course, standing over THAT putt, playing with THOSE people. I know, I’m a little insane. But those little existential moments really screw up my score. Kind of like when you’re talking with a friend and some hot chick in a short skirt walks by. You forget what you were talking about, why you were talking about it, who the person is you were talking to, and why your eyes have ceased to be curious about ANYTHING other than that freakin’ skirt. Or maybe that’s just me. But again: I’m a little insane.

So I guess the moral, point, lesson, whatever you want to call it from that little rant is that golfers need to step away from the shot and re-focus before they hit. Don’t waste a swing just because your brain decides to rip a huge fart. That’s one less “if” you need to go over with yourself after the round is over (e.g., “Well, IF I didn’t 3-putt twice on the back…IF I didn’t chili-dip that wedge on 9, IF I had asked that one chick to get tested…etc”).

I also have some big news. One of the player’s I caddied for recently specializes in Lasik eye surgeries, and he’s been asking me to stop in for an appointment to see if my eyes fall within the parameters of the laser. Well I went in and caught him today after my round was over. And it turns out I’m a candidate for surgery. So I made an appointment for July 27th.

I have to spaz out for a second. So you’re telling me I’ll be able to see without glasses or contacts on July 28th? Holy shit. I need to find some way to celebrate. I don’t even think there are enough hours in the DAY to do what I would like to do. Well, I guess first off I want to look at EVERYTHING, as opposed to closing my eyes most of the day. That’s a good start. I want to tell every player I work with that YES, I COULD DEFINITELY SEE YOUR BALL OFF OF THE TEE. No more tilting my glasses forward to help me see the ball flying through the air. Oh yeah, I HAVE to start wearing those Peak Vision sunglasses ALL THE TIME. Whenever I fart from now on, I’m going to turn to the person next to me and say, “I SMELL BACON.” I wonder if I could get some of the other caddies to go out drinking with me on the 28th. Well that shouldn’t really be a problem. That’s like asking an Irishman if he’d like a Guinness. So okay. I’m going to go to work, chug like 4 energy drinks to make sure I’m all over the place and then yell REALLY loud. THEN I’m going run myself ragged and read EVERYONE’S putts even if they don’t want me to. If they tell me to stop, I’ll simply tell them of my surgery and accentuate the completion of the story with a “so go fuck yourself.” Then I’m at least PRACTICING golf to make sure my game stays in shape after the change. And then I’m getting a freakin’ hair cut, because right now I look like a freakin’ ski bum. Then I’m going out and getting HAMMERED. I’m talking to every girl, getting as many numbers as I can, and then throwing them all out before I leave. Oh man. I can’t wait.

If anyone has any other suggestions for me, please let me know. I mean, I don’t want to do EVERYTHING in one day, but I definitely need to find some creative ways to celebrate. As you can see from my initial thoughts, my plans aren’t really that “creative” yet. They’re more like, “be as obnoxious as possible.” And I SUPPOSE I really don't want that. So let me know what you think I should do.

6 comments:

Anonymous said...

JB. You can do what I did on my LASIK surgery day in New Orleans. I had a friend pick me up because you really can't see enough to drive right after the surgery. We immediately stopped at a bar to eat and drink. Nice. They DO tell you to sleep for the first 3-4 hours after surgery, but what do they know? You want to celebrate your liberation from corrective eyewear. However, they were right. Your eyes feel like they are on fire for about the first 4 hours after the surgery. Well, after relaxing for a few hours, it was time to hit Greek Fest. 2-3 bottles of red wine, Greek food, 2-3 bottles of more red wine. And hey, I was able to see things more than 6" in front of my face clearly. Sweet!

RonMon said...

Cartwrite! Cartwright!! Let me know 'bout this Lasik thing. I have a friend who had it done during the first generation, and his eyes are totally regressing. I imagine it's better now. Word on the fading in and out thing. I baptized a new course near Buffalo three weeks ago. Four over from the tips heading to 17. 4-iron into the drink 20 YARDS in front of the tee. Couldn't drop anywhere. Retee, make six, finish +7 at 79. New book on how to turn a 76 into a 79 is due out after Harry Potter.

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