Nirvana

Golf. I like it. Why do I choose to write about it now? Well, unlike the paper I am writing about the economic underpinnings of private entrepreneurship in Zhejiang in the 1980s, I can think of things to say about golf.

I signed up for an on-campus beginner's golf class for a very shallow reason--I figured it would be useful in my future career as a serial schmoozer. Ten weeks of practice on the driving range have made me a true believer. I really like it.

Hitting practice balls on the range has a peculiar Zen-like quality. Bend down. Tee up a ball. Step back. Eye your shot. Walk in and set the driver down. Go through the checklist. Left instep in line with the tee. Club points to the pleat of your pants. Dip your right shoulder down. Pop your left forearm up. Flex the left pec to maintain form. Arch your back like you are shaking what your mama gave you. Weight on the back foot. Start your back swing. Left arm straight. Break at the wrist. Swing your hips. Wind the spring.

Showtime.

Swish your hips back through. Shift weight to the left foot. Natural, remember natural. Unleash the club. Hit half of the tee. Connect with a satisfying thwack. Ohh, great sound. Follow through, always follow through. Hips rotate to 90 degrees. Right heel comes up. You're in a ballet at this point. Stare purposefully into the distance. Track the ball through the bright flood lights. See it plop down on the green at 180 yards. Hold the pose for a while. Soak it in. Oomm... (Double-check to see if you are high. Nope.) ...mmmmmm. Reach down, tee up another ball.

I Think I Got High Last Night

I am responsible. Really. I try to get in bed at a reasonable hour. Sometimes when my schedule is skewampas, I take an Ambien to help me sleep and reset. Last night I accidentally took two.

As I was talking to my roommate Bob about our Saturday plans I said: "Hey Bob, I see two of you." As he related it to me this morning, I then hit my head against the door frame until he made me stop. My eyes were coming in and out of focus rapidly. He asked if I had taken anything. I told him the doctor prescribed 8 sleeping pills. Apparently that didn't phase him, because he just put me to bed.

After he shut the door, I popped out of bed and checked facebook. I spammed about 100 people with gushing wall posts and awkward quizzes. I guess deep down I wondered if other people thought my Spanish teacher from high school, several engaged friends, or my cousins were good kissers. I also posted a poll on my friend Katie's wall asking how many people thought she was religious. Fine, I guess, except that she isn't quite so into church these days. One acquaintance from high school asked me if I was on ecstasy. I am not that exotic.

This morning as I erased my facebook tracks I discovered some real winners. On Kat's wall I said: "I like you. I like your picture. Your picture is cute as a button." Seems strange in its see-Spot-run simplicity but not completely out of character. On Camile's wall I said: "I like you. I don't know what your goal is this year, but I hope you get it. You are a real winner." I was overcome by love and truth and vulgarity. I said as much on Caitlin's wall: "You girls are beautiful and righteous and obedient bitches." But what really confirmed that I got high last night was what I wrote on Broek's wall: "Your picture reminds me of my last novel...'the young maiden, hands behind her head, was arrested for unlicensed folk and emo sensibilities, though after being aroused out of her stupor, she came willingly to...'" Not sure where I was going with that, but as far as first lines of novels go, I think I am really on to something.