The ultimate long shot almost came through on Sunday, and while it was a heck of a ride and a very entertaining final round, it ended in disappointment, not only for one of the game’s legendary players and gentlemen, but for true golf fans around the world. Three shots away from claiming not only golf but sports history, the nearly 60 year-old Watson hit his approach shot over the green and couldn’t get up and down to save par and the win, and the rest was almost a foregone conclusion.
Tom Watson was my first love in golf, as a young kid in the late 70’s and early 80’s, he was the guy I chose as my favorite player, namely because he was one of the best players in the game at the time and I liked his style and his humility, and because my dad was a huge Jack Nicklaus fan and I wanted someone I could claim as my own. So to see old Tome as the Scottish fans who revere him refer to the unpretentious mid-westerner, compete for one magical weekend brought back memories of the game the way it used to be, the way it was before Tiger came on the scene and brought with him a new power style of grip it and rip it that has come to define the game over the last decade or so.
I heard a radio commentator the other night refer to Watson playing old man’s golf. I would call it just golf, the way the game was meant to be played before the technology of the clubs and the design of the courses gave us the predictable game we have today. Watching guys hit 350 yard drives and 175 yard nine irons into receptive greens is exciting for about fifteen minutes but it gets old quick. It’s the sports equivalent of going to a strip club. It is the main reason I rarely bother to watch a regular tournament anymore, where a bunch of young guns with driver heads bigger than my Yorkie hit bombs and fire birdies and eagles on their way to winning scores of 25 under par.
Tiger has been great for the game in many ways, he has undoubtedly opened the game to a new set of fans and has inspired his competitors to greater heights. He is one of the game’s all time greats, and may very likely become the all-time leader in majors won, although that alone won’t make him the greatest player of all-time, but that is an argument for another day. I enjoy watching Tiger play as much as the next guy, and while I am a Mickelson fan (he’s a fellow ASU alum who matriculated there at the same time as I did) and I have watched and rooted for Lefty since his amateur days, I appreciate and admire Tiger’s greatness and am right there with the rest of the sporting public in front of the tube when he is in contention.
But I am also a fan of the game, and unlike many Tiger fans, I loved the game well before he came on the scene and will appreciate it long after he has faded into the sunset. This past weekend was a refreshing break from the Tiger era, and proved to all of us who love the game more than any one player that a great tournament comes from the setting and the competitive drama as much if not more than the characters. It was a reminder that keeping the ball in the fairway off the tee beats a bomb into the rough, and imagination and creativity are much more sporting than sheer power.
The drama of golf is at its best when the greatest players in the world, with skills the rest of us can only dream of struggle and overcome those struggles, when a guy goes from hero to zero in the span of ten minutes with a snowman that takes him from the lead to off the leader board. It is the most riveting when it is full of ups and downs, triumphs and tribulations, all within the span of a four hour round. And for my money, there is nothing better than links golf, this is the game in its original form as it was invented to be played, on land unsuitable for farming along the British coast.
Old Tom almost closed the deal and almost won one for all the old guys out there, for all of us who despite aching muscles and sore knees and stiff backs, still get out of bed and get in our morning workout, or who put off the comfort of our easy chair and cold bottle of beer for a couple hours after work to get in our afternoon exercise time. Old Tom almost got one for all of us regular guys and gals who go out to our local course every time hoping that maybe the next round will be the one for the ages, the one where we play an entire round the way we are capable usually of playing only for a few holes on a given side, before the Golf Gods get back from break and put us in our rightful place.
It was almost one for the ages, and while we can’t expect Watson to repeat that performance again, it should keep the rest of us coming back for more, because the promise of watching golf, as it is for all sports, is that just like Forest Gump and his box of chocolates, you never know what you’re gonna get. I’d say this past weekend golf and sports fans got more than we bargained for, and short of the hoped for storybook ending, that will have to be enough, at least for now.
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Thursday, July 16, 2009
The Third Wave
The way I understand it, there have been two previous waves of the feminist movement in America, the first dating back to the middle of the 19th century where women like Elizabeth Cady Stanton and Lucretia Mott petitioned for voting rights, or suffrage for the female population. It is assumed that once political rights are granted, that the exercise of such will lead to additional rights and more opportunities. While this is true to an extent, it is my understanding that in the early years of women gaining the franchise, which was finally accomplished in the early 20th century, it was not particularly utilized for the betterment of the gender, most women who did vote did so in agreement with their husbands, and the examples of females holding political office or wielding power behind the scenes are rare.
The second wave began in the 1960’s, an era of protest in general, against social conventions considered to be oppressive, against the war in Vietnam (imagine that, people having the courage to not stand by idly while young men were sent off to fight in a war of choice) and protest against sexism and gender discrimination. This was the era of sexual freedom for women made possible by the pill, a demand for more opportunities in the workplace, a push for an equal rights amendment that was never realized, and by the more militant wing of the movement the burning of bras and a rejection of any role that was associated with traditional femininity as being inherently repressive.
In many ways, women have gained what they sought, and it is my contention that we are much better as a society for it. I believe firmly in the notion expressed by Dr. King, that if any of our brothers or sisters are in chains, then none of us are truly free, if one of us feels the weight of oppression that burden is shared by the society in general, that what affects one of us affects all of us. Women are free to pursue an education in the field of their choice, and have the opportunity to become what they wish to become. While there are still certain barriers in the workplace and specific industries that are male bastions, and while equal pay for comparable work is still a goal that must be pursued, as the line goes, you’ve come a long ways baby.
So where does the notion of feminism go from here? White middle aged conservative males have tried their best to maintain the status quo, as terms like feminazi (coined I believe by the ultra WMACM Rush Limbaugh) attest to, but for the most part women have shed the slave mentality that kept them from realizing their potential in the earlier days. The question then becomes, what do you do with power once you have it? My hope is that together with enlightened members of the male species, we can build a better, more just, compassionate, and ultimately more humane world to live in. My fear is that women will take what has been dearly bought and squander it on becoming just like men. There are plenty of signs of this if you look around.
Women today are more likely to swear in public, sport multiple tattoos, practice casual sex, cheat on their mates, have beer guts, and act ruthlessly and with little compassion in the workplace. In other words, we are in danger of simply doubling the male population! The one male prerogative still unavailable to women is the ability to go shirtless in public, although it has become apparently acceptable for women to have half of their boobs hanging out of their tops, and to wear the sheerest possible coverings, to the point of where nipples have become a public commodity. Not to sound too prudish, but is all of this really progress? While I am certainly no pious Muslim man who averts all glances at the fairer sex, I am admittedly old school when it comes to certain things being best left to the imagination.
Leave it to a man to go off on a tangent about women’s breasts, let me get back to my main idea, which is the question of where this new, third wave if you will, of feminism should take us. My feeling is that a woman should not need a man, but should not bash males for sport either. A woman can certainly live a meaningful life without male companionship, as Catherine Sloper, the protagonist of Henry James’ novel Washington Square did after being jilted by the snake Morris Townsend. Along with her father, the men in Catherine’s life were disappointing, but she nonetheless carves out an existence with merit in the mid 19th century, an era well before feminist notions had entered our consciousness. Yet to my way of seeing it, men and women are more complete as humans when we join together, there is much to be said for being able to see the world from each other’s perspective, and we are infinitely more productive when we are allies rather than adversaries.
My hope is that men will become less macho, while retaining a certain toughness and sense of honor and duty that serves us well, and that we will become more enlightened and appreciative of the world and the people around us. My hope for women is that they will maintain their unique and wonderful feminine qualities of nurturing and compassion and empathy, while continuing to assert their strength and courage and independence. Men aren’t from Mars, and women aren’t from Venus, we both share planet Earth, and the best hope for a better society here is for the two genders to blend the best qualities of each, to teach and to learn from each other, and if it is done properly, there may not be a need for a fourth wave of feminism.
The second wave began in the 1960’s, an era of protest in general, against social conventions considered to be oppressive, against the war in Vietnam (imagine that, people having the courage to not stand by idly while young men were sent off to fight in a war of choice) and protest against sexism and gender discrimination. This was the era of sexual freedom for women made possible by the pill, a demand for more opportunities in the workplace, a push for an equal rights amendment that was never realized, and by the more militant wing of the movement the burning of bras and a rejection of any role that was associated with traditional femininity as being inherently repressive.
In many ways, women have gained what they sought, and it is my contention that we are much better as a society for it. I believe firmly in the notion expressed by Dr. King, that if any of our brothers or sisters are in chains, then none of us are truly free, if one of us feels the weight of oppression that burden is shared by the society in general, that what affects one of us affects all of us. Women are free to pursue an education in the field of their choice, and have the opportunity to become what they wish to become. While there are still certain barriers in the workplace and specific industries that are male bastions, and while equal pay for comparable work is still a goal that must be pursued, as the line goes, you’ve come a long ways baby.
So where does the notion of feminism go from here? White middle aged conservative males have tried their best to maintain the status quo, as terms like feminazi (coined I believe by the ultra WMACM Rush Limbaugh) attest to, but for the most part women have shed the slave mentality that kept them from realizing their potential in the earlier days. The question then becomes, what do you do with power once you have it? My hope is that together with enlightened members of the male species, we can build a better, more just, compassionate, and ultimately more humane world to live in. My fear is that women will take what has been dearly bought and squander it on becoming just like men. There are plenty of signs of this if you look around.
Women today are more likely to swear in public, sport multiple tattoos, practice casual sex, cheat on their mates, have beer guts, and act ruthlessly and with little compassion in the workplace. In other words, we are in danger of simply doubling the male population! The one male prerogative still unavailable to women is the ability to go shirtless in public, although it has become apparently acceptable for women to have half of their boobs hanging out of their tops, and to wear the sheerest possible coverings, to the point of where nipples have become a public commodity. Not to sound too prudish, but is all of this really progress? While I am certainly no pious Muslim man who averts all glances at the fairer sex, I am admittedly old school when it comes to certain things being best left to the imagination.
Leave it to a man to go off on a tangent about women’s breasts, let me get back to my main idea, which is the question of where this new, third wave if you will, of feminism should take us. My feeling is that a woman should not need a man, but should not bash males for sport either. A woman can certainly live a meaningful life without male companionship, as Catherine Sloper, the protagonist of Henry James’ novel Washington Square did after being jilted by the snake Morris Townsend. Along with her father, the men in Catherine’s life were disappointing, but she nonetheless carves out an existence with merit in the mid 19th century, an era well before feminist notions had entered our consciousness. Yet to my way of seeing it, men and women are more complete as humans when we join together, there is much to be said for being able to see the world from each other’s perspective, and we are infinitely more productive when we are allies rather than adversaries.
My hope is that men will become less macho, while retaining a certain toughness and sense of honor and duty that serves us well, and that we will become more enlightened and appreciative of the world and the people around us. My hope for women is that they will maintain their unique and wonderful feminine qualities of nurturing and compassion and empathy, while continuing to assert their strength and courage and independence. Men aren’t from Mars, and women aren’t from Venus, we both share planet Earth, and the best hope for a better society here is for the two genders to blend the best qualities of each, to teach and to learn from each other, and if it is done properly, there may not be a need for a fourth wave of feminism.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Not a Fool for the City
As I mentioned yesterday I just recently got back from what has become my annual pilgrimage to the Eastern Sierras in what is generally referred to as Northern but is more geographically actually in Central California. If there is such a place as “God’s Country” then this has to be it, at least it must be on the short list of finalists. One week leaves me with the indelible impression for the other 51 of the tall green pines, the aspens quavering in the afternoon wind, the clear rural skies, the crispness of the morning air, and always surrounded by snow covered mountain peaks. The town that we stay in is a ski resort in winter, but summer has always been my favorite time to visit Mammoth Lakes, CA.
In summer is when the town is at its best. And at its best it is a simple and quaint place, with a stated population of 7000 locals supplemented by the scores of San Diegans and Los Angelinos who come up for a weekend or midweek retreat from city life. As Phoenician refugees we are in the minority, but the impetus is the same, and in our case we are escaping not only the blandness of modern suburban life, but the oppressive desert heat as well. A week is never nearly enough, if money grew on trees and I had a couple of those bad boys in my back yard, I’d spend my entire summers up in the Sierras, but since the only trees in my backyard are palm trees and bougainvilleas that leave me looking like a heroin addict with track marks up and down my arms after trimming them, a week has to do. I get in all of the running, back country hiking, lazy days fishing or at least pretending to fish while relaxing at Lake Mary, and trips to the Jacuzzi that I can squeeze into the time I am allotted. The bonus this trip was the discovery of the Java Joint, a cool little coffee house within walking distance of our condo, where the java is smooth, the music funky, and which has a great space in the back where I can sit in a comfy chair, drink my morning beverage and read my book. I finished Henry James’ Washington Square on this trip, a novel that I will be referencing soon as I expound on my thoughts on feminism.
Perhaps nothing in life brings out characteristics as much as contrasts, at least that is my belief and something that I am trying to explore in some short stories that I am currently working on. We enjoy happiness most after periods of sadness and we tend to appreciate good people more when we encounter evil, that sort of contrast. For most of us, we are basking in the light of having an articulate and intelligent president with sound judgment after a long stretch of being saddled with one who was sorely lacking in all of these elements. So upon my return to the desert life it becomes apparent to me how much I really am not ultimately cut out for big city living.
I am not driven by material gains, I am not interested in driving the best car or living in the most prestigious neighborhoods, I don’t dress to impress, and I don’t walk around with an air of self-importance, like most of my fellow city dwellers. I enjoy simple pleasures in life, good conversation, a good book, the beauty of nature, a five mile run on a cool afternoon, a relaxing evening at home with my wife and kids watching TV, a bowl of strawberry ice cream before bed, that kind of stuff. I believe in looking people in the eye, a friendly smile, and a little light conversation if the situation allows. To ignore other humans is rude and arrogant, but in Phoenix, as I imagine in most big megalopolises that most Americans today live in, this seems to be the cultural norm. Keep your eyes down and stay moving, you’re important, you’re busy, you’ve got no time for idle chit chat, acknowledgement of others, or any other forms of basic humanity. There are a few exceptions that I encounter, but these merely go to delineate the rule.
The people that I know that seem to be the most content all live in small towns, and I have come to believe that a small town, or at least a small city is where I would be the happiest for the balance of my life. My wife agrees, being a small town girl herself, and while I don’t idealize this life, I find that I much prefer it to life in the big city. There are certainly tradeoffs and I am aware of these having lived for two years in small town Iowa, but they are deals I am willing to make in order to live in a place that is more authentic and genuine than this artifice in the middle of the desert that I now call home. I’m not going anywhere anytime too soon, my kids still have a few good years left and I feel it’s important for them to grow up in one place, a place they seem to like, and I should add that for the most part I enjoy as well. Yet I have never felt completely at home in this city, and the notion of being in a place where even if not everyone knows your name, they at least acknowledge your existence, a place with a pace more to my liking, this is appealing to me. I don’t know where I’ll end up eventually, for all I know I’ll end up right where I’m at, but if I have my way I’ll be somewhere with natural beauty, a good coffee house, trails to run and hike, and a yard sans any prickly plants.
In summer is when the town is at its best. And at its best it is a simple and quaint place, with a stated population of 7000 locals supplemented by the scores of San Diegans and Los Angelinos who come up for a weekend or midweek retreat from city life. As Phoenician refugees we are in the minority, but the impetus is the same, and in our case we are escaping not only the blandness of modern suburban life, but the oppressive desert heat as well. A week is never nearly enough, if money grew on trees and I had a couple of those bad boys in my back yard, I’d spend my entire summers up in the Sierras, but since the only trees in my backyard are palm trees and bougainvilleas that leave me looking like a heroin addict with track marks up and down my arms after trimming them, a week has to do. I get in all of the running, back country hiking, lazy days fishing or at least pretending to fish while relaxing at Lake Mary, and trips to the Jacuzzi that I can squeeze into the time I am allotted. The bonus this trip was the discovery of the Java Joint, a cool little coffee house within walking distance of our condo, where the java is smooth, the music funky, and which has a great space in the back where I can sit in a comfy chair, drink my morning beverage and read my book. I finished Henry James’ Washington Square on this trip, a novel that I will be referencing soon as I expound on my thoughts on feminism.
Perhaps nothing in life brings out characteristics as much as contrasts, at least that is my belief and something that I am trying to explore in some short stories that I am currently working on. We enjoy happiness most after periods of sadness and we tend to appreciate good people more when we encounter evil, that sort of contrast. For most of us, we are basking in the light of having an articulate and intelligent president with sound judgment after a long stretch of being saddled with one who was sorely lacking in all of these elements. So upon my return to the desert life it becomes apparent to me how much I really am not ultimately cut out for big city living.
I am not driven by material gains, I am not interested in driving the best car or living in the most prestigious neighborhoods, I don’t dress to impress, and I don’t walk around with an air of self-importance, like most of my fellow city dwellers. I enjoy simple pleasures in life, good conversation, a good book, the beauty of nature, a five mile run on a cool afternoon, a relaxing evening at home with my wife and kids watching TV, a bowl of strawberry ice cream before bed, that kind of stuff. I believe in looking people in the eye, a friendly smile, and a little light conversation if the situation allows. To ignore other humans is rude and arrogant, but in Phoenix, as I imagine in most big megalopolises that most Americans today live in, this seems to be the cultural norm. Keep your eyes down and stay moving, you’re important, you’re busy, you’ve got no time for idle chit chat, acknowledgement of others, or any other forms of basic humanity. There are a few exceptions that I encounter, but these merely go to delineate the rule.
The people that I know that seem to be the most content all live in small towns, and I have come to believe that a small town, or at least a small city is where I would be the happiest for the balance of my life. My wife agrees, being a small town girl herself, and while I don’t idealize this life, I find that I much prefer it to life in the big city. There are certainly tradeoffs and I am aware of these having lived for two years in small town Iowa, but they are deals I am willing to make in order to live in a place that is more authentic and genuine than this artifice in the middle of the desert that I now call home. I’m not going anywhere anytime too soon, my kids still have a few good years left and I feel it’s important for them to grow up in one place, a place they seem to like, and I should add that for the most part I enjoy as well. Yet I have never felt completely at home in this city, and the notion of being in a place where even if not everyone knows your name, they at least acknowledge your existence, a place with a pace more to my liking, this is appealing to me. I don’t know where I’ll end up eventually, for all I know I’ll end up right where I’m at, but if I have my way I’ll be somewhere with natural beauty, a good coffee house, trails to run and hike, and a yard sans any prickly plants.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
The First Rule of Complaining
It’s been said that everyone complains about the weather but nobody does anything about it. Guilty as charged on that account, I may be the biggest whiner when it comes to the ridiculously and inhuman desert summers, no more so than after returning from the much more hospitable climate of the Sierra Nevada Mountains. I’ve been pissing and moaning about how hot it is in this blasted desert since returning from my annual trek to the high country last weekend, but as yet I have been unable to come up with a solution, short of covering the city with a giant tent and pumping in air conditioning, or locking myself in a restaurant deep freezer until November.
We love to complain, not just Americans but all people. It is part of our nature, sometimes it is just a way to blow off steam, the way we complain to our spouse about our boss, we know that we can’t change our boss or our job, but it feels good to let out a little vitriol nonetheless. Sometimes it is just a way to pass the time, sitting around gossiping and griping. Sometimes it is a serious attempt to solve a problem because you can’t make things better unless you are sufficiently worked up enough to do something about it.
And therein lays the key to successful complainers, as opposed to those who just piss and moan into the wind, the ability to do something about it, or at least the attempt to do so. My old boss had a rule that applied to gripes that came up in meetings, and it was that if you saw a problem, you were in charge of fixing it. I can only estimate how much shorter that kept our weekly meetings, because nothing shuts up the naysayers more quickly than requiring them to come up with a solution. Perhaps this first rule of complaining could be applied to Congress, to the political punditry, and even more broadly to the public at large.
The idea for this column came from recent conversations regarding unsolicited emails sent from friends and acquaintances that make sport of bashing our new president. Many of you have probably received them, they make plausible but unsubstantiated claims that are easy to buy into if one is so inclined, but not so easily proved or backed up with any facts. They generally run along the lines of, Obama is a socialist, he wants to take over the banks and General Motors, he wants to turn us into a bunch of African Muslims, he wants America to be just like France and Sweden. He wants to force us into rationed health care, take away our guns, tax us until we bleed, and force us all into driving hybrid Chevy Malibus.
And those of us, who at last count was well over 60% of the population if you believe the opinion surveys, that actually support the president are just a bunch of suckers that are being taken in by Obama’s charm and good looks and smooth talk. We’re just a bunch of high school sophomore girls being swept off their feet by the popular senior and we’re only going to get taken for a ride and then dumped in the back of the gym parking lot when all is said and done.
So my charge to the Obama haters out there is to propose some solutions to the problems they love to moan about. The next time one of those annoying emails comes across your inbox mocking the president and anyone with the audacity to hope that he will turn out to be the real deal, reply with a simple question, what is your proposed solution? Not happy with the health care proposal, or with immigration law, or with the stimulus package or the size of the deficit? Fine, then what do you propose we as a nation do about it?
We have plenty of things to complain about, a multitude of problems to solve and the only way to do that is through open and honest debate among people who disagree about the best way to address these concerns. Groupthink doesn’t have a great track record of bringing about positive change, so divergent opinions and challenges to conventional thinking should be welcomed. But the first rule of complaining should be adhered to at all times, if you’ve got a gripe, then you need to propose a solution. Unless of course you’re talking about the 115 degree Phoenix weather in July, which is a complaint without a solution, and a problem that even Obama can’t solve.
We love to complain, not just Americans but all people. It is part of our nature, sometimes it is just a way to blow off steam, the way we complain to our spouse about our boss, we know that we can’t change our boss or our job, but it feels good to let out a little vitriol nonetheless. Sometimes it is just a way to pass the time, sitting around gossiping and griping. Sometimes it is a serious attempt to solve a problem because you can’t make things better unless you are sufficiently worked up enough to do something about it.
And therein lays the key to successful complainers, as opposed to those who just piss and moan into the wind, the ability to do something about it, or at least the attempt to do so. My old boss had a rule that applied to gripes that came up in meetings, and it was that if you saw a problem, you were in charge of fixing it. I can only estimate how much shorter that kept our weekly meetings, because nothing shuts up the naysayers more quickly than requiring them to come up with a solution. Perhaps this first rule of complaining could be applied to Congress, to the political punditry, and even more broadly to the public at large.
The idea for this column came from recent conversations regarding unsolicited emails sent from friends and acquaintances that make sport of bashing our new president. Many of you have probably received them, they make plausible but unsubstantiated claims that are easy to buy into if one is so inclined, but not so easily proved or backed up with any facts. They generally run along the lines of, Obama is a socialist, he wants to take over the banks and General Motors, he wants to turn us into a bunch of African Muslims, he wants America to be just like France and Sweden. He wants to force us into rationed health care, take away our guns, tax us until we bleed, and force us all into driving hybrid Chevy Malibus.
And those of us, who at last count was well over 60% of the population if you believe the opinion surveys, that actually support the president are just a bunch of suckers that are being taken in by Obama’s charm and good looks and smooth talk. We’re just a bunch of high school sophomore girls being swept off their feet by the popular senior and we’re only going to get taken for a ride and then dumped in the back of the gym parking lot when all is said and done.
So my charge to the Obama haters out there is to propose some solutions to the problems they love to moan about. The next time one of those annoying emails comes across your inbox mocking the president and anyone with the audacity to hope that he will turn out to be the real deal, reply with a simple question, what is your proposed solution? Not happy with the health care proposal, or with immigration law, or with the stimulus package or the size of the deficit? Fine, then what do you propose we as a nation do about it?
We have plenty of things to complain about, a multitude of problems to solve and the only way to do that is through open and honest debate among people who disagree about the best way to address these concerns. Groupthink doesn’t have a great track record of bringing about positive change, so divergent opinions and challenges to conventional thinking should be welcomed. But the first rule of complaining should be adhered to at all times, if you’ve got a gripe, then you need to propose a solution. Unless of course you’re talking about the 115 degree Phoenix weather in July, which is a complaint without a solution, and a problem that even Obama can’t solve.
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