It's All A Matter Of Perspective

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Vincent didn't understand why all the trash baskets on the course listed to the right. On his early morning mows he had to dismount his Toro and straighten each of them out. He was actually growing increasingly cross at the delay this caused to his productive mowing time. It was all very inefficient. He was about to report these derelictions of duty to the Superintendent until he met Jimmy, the person responsible for them. In that moment, Vincent understood instantly and felt chagrin that he had been so quick to judge.Vincent learned that Jimmy had once been a promising player, one qualification away from making it to The Tour when he developed a chronic crook in his neck from playing a round with a set of ill-fitted clubs that he had borrowed when his own set was lost in a unfortunate airline baggage occurrence. Doctors informed him that the effects were irreversible. Jimmy persevered and continue to play but found that his natural power draw had deteriorated to a persistent slice. His game was never the same. He would never play competitively again. Jimmy loved golf and wanted to stay close to it in some capacity so he signed on at The Club to empty trash baskets on the course. Being a proud man, and a tad self-conscious of his affliction, Jimmy made his rounds in the wee hours of the early morning darkness, before the rest of the crew arrived. Vincent just happened to meet Jimmy by series a unlikely coincidences that led Vincent to believe in an intelligence force behind the universe.

Flymo Your Way To Rock Hard Abs

Vincent had heard the noise about Six Second Abs, Ab Loungers, Ab Wheels, Ab Rollers, Ab Gliders, Electric Abdominal Belts, The Abdomizer and other inventions that promised washboard abs ad infinitum. And then Vincent was shown how to Flymo the undulating contours of bunkers, sand traps, berms and mounds. Nowadays, his abs just tingle in anticipation of a thorough Flymo session.

And Christo Was His Name-o.

It was a sunny and breezy day. Actually, the wind was gusting to 30 knots when Vincent and eight crew members attempted to neatly fold a tarp on the rear tee of the Club's practice facility. One such blow billowed the tarp and it unfurled to cover the crew, the range picker vehicle and the Forsythias at the back of the tee.  Vincent thought of the work of Christo and Jeanne-Claude. They had wrapped, among other things, The Reichstag in Berlin.

Was this a fortunate stroke of serendipity? Was this art? Did it matter? Vincent smiled and began to softly sing a song:

There was a farmer who had a dog,
And Bingo was his name-o.
B-I-N-G-O 
B-I-N-G-O 
B-I-N-G-O 
And Bingo was his name-o.

Everything Must Go

The backlot of The Club, the place where wear, tear and plenty of rust reside. Vincent liked to take it all in. It reminded him of the Buddhist notion of impermanence. It reminded him of Matthew 6:19‚Äì"Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth, where moth and rust doth corrupt, and where thieves break through and steal:." It reminded him of trips to the junkyard with his dad when he was five. Vincent loved the tall stacks of rusting vehicles, some flattened. There was an inherent beauty in the corrosion, decay and oily dirt of the yard. Vincent was still drawn today by the call of things passing, changing and transforming  He thought of Neil Young's, Rust Never Sleeps. He thought of the myriad images of crumbling Soviet era monoliths to industry, party power and cold war ambition depicted on the internet. Picture after picture of abandoned, half-finished hospitals, high-rise apartment complexes, factories and chemical plants. Overgrown concrete. Broken glass. Squatter detritus. Graffiti. Recent photos of Detroit in abandoned ruin elicited a certain sadness and inexplicable attraction, too. No need to travel to see what's left of the empire. The artifacts are all around us, here, now."Yes," Vincent thought, "everything must go. "

Black Hole Sun? Black Sand Bunkers.

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Vincent saw the left over black sand used in the late winter and early spring to help melt the ice from the the greens covers.  Vincent thought it would look terrific in The Club's bunkers. However, another golf visionary and legend had beaten him to the punch. Jack Nicklaus was called to build a world class golf course on a former copper smelter site that was declared a government Super Fund site in 1983. Old Works of Anaconda, Montana features black sand bunkers extensively throughout the course. Slag is a by-product of the copper smelting process and mountains of the black sand are seen when driving into town.

How To Give A Willow A Mullet

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Very carefully indeed.

Vincent gave most Willows shags, razor cutting with his hand shears. It was a cut that enhanced the inherent line, drape and silhouette of each Willow. However, one Willow seemed to speak to Vincent, encouraging him to, "go retro." Vincent went back to the early eighties for his inspiration and boldly styled this Mullet that quickly became the talk of The Club. 

What Are Those Cossacks Doing On Our 18th Fairway?

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Vincent's proficiency at spotting, leaning out and picking up errant gum wrappers, cellophane cigar sleeves and twigs of all sizes from the fairway while driving a golf cart at full throttle increased exponentially that Spring. It was on one such pass that Vincent imagined himself a Moldavian Cossack, adorned in the colorful robe, golden sash, poodle hair hat, jewel-encrusted dagger and gold handled sword. Vincent was demonstrating his golf cartsmanship on the 18th fairway to two foursomes of lithe, nubile and affluent women members. The women looked on with glee, wonder and longing as Vincent picked up fairway litter, his slender V-Shaped torso extended out parallel to the fairway moving rapidly beneath him. Adroitly, his one foot securely locked in the wheel and steered, while his other foot held the accelerator down. Men looked on with envy. Even the Club Pro was impressed. Vincent just smiled and drove off to the next fairway and another appreciative audience. 

Of Donuts, Coffee Cups & Calabi-Yau Shapes

It's all connected. As Vincent cut the approach to #14, his thought of the the big donut he saw in the rack that morning when he stopped for his medium sized regular. Who would eat such a thing? Would office cronies share it, forks and knives in hand? Would one person polish it off and call it a day? Is there a correspondingly sized cup of coffee to go with it? He also thought of superstrings, hidden dimensions and the quest for the ultimate theory for all things. Actually, donut and coffee cups are the same (if one were working in clay, one could make a coffee cup from a donut and a donut from a coffee cup without tearing the continuum). The Calabi-Yau Shapes were just donuts with a twist--lots of twists actually.  It was all just one continuum. "Look inward. Look outward. You're looking at the same thing. Nothing. No thing. Joshu's Dog. Time, space and donuts. It doesn't get any better than this," Vincent mused.

Fluid Dynamics

Vincent wondered in a Superstring Theory, Alternate Reality, Parallel Universe sort of way how different things would be if men gave their fiances professional turf management hose nozzles instead of diamond rings. A William Blake apothegm came to mind: "If the doors of perception were cleansed, everything would appear to man as it is, infimite." Perhaps Vincent just needed to get out of the sun for a while and sip a refreshing ice water.