a story I wrote in 2006 about the first time I played The Old Course in St Andrews

I recently had the need to look for something on my external hard drive. During that process, I stumbled on a folder of old writings I did back in college. Naturally, I read through a lot of them. My reactions varied: I shook my head in shame, I laughed out loud at stupid memories, I chuckled at the combination of my naivete and insight, and I smirked whenever I found something that was actually interesting and readable. I hope that the ensuing short (quite short, indeed) story falls into the latter category, for you.

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“My first tee shot on the Old Course”

The starter announced over his loudspeaker, “7:10 game, play away.” I yawned and looked out to the beach, just a few hundred yards away. The sun was just peeking over the horizon, reluctantly sprouting upwards from the glistening water. It had been light out for only two hours. I had been up for one and a half.

“That’s us! Yahoo!” chirped Darrell, a squat, brutish man who I had met only five minutes before. He slapped me on the back mid-yawn, rocketing me into a spasming hiccough. Our playing partner, Daniel, walked by as I half-choked, smiling brightly for absolutely no reason. I didn’t see him frown all day. It frightened me.

I was supposed to be excited. This was St Andrews, the home, the cradle, the birthplace of golf—where it all began! And here I was about to tee off. I should have been brimming with anticipation. I should have been nervous. I should have been shaking. I was only tired.

That was while I was waiting. Darrell started us off, whipping out an extra long wooden tee, painted green. “Luck o’ the Irish, eh?” he laughed, before shoving the tee into the dewy grass. “Ahhhhh, let’s see.” He waggled his oversized driver. “Let’s see if I can’t spank this down the short grass.” I couldn’t help thinking whether he was compensating for something, even though it was a clichéd phrase, and I hate clichés.

His swing was jerky, nowhere near as smooth as his drawl, but every bit as jolting. I almost fell over during his backswing. It was so quick and spasmodic that even though I was nearly thirty feet away, I was afraid the club might slip out of his hands and smack me square across the forehead before I had time to duck. The result was impressively beautiful for such an ugly motion—roughly 250 yards down the right side of the fairway. That’s what always intrigued me about golf: artfulness was never truly rewarded. “Hee hee! And they’re off!”

Daniel was next. He told us loudly he was from Switzerland. This was his first visit to Scotland. He was very excited. His swing was slightly more graceful than Darrell’s, and a hell of a lot more rhythmic. He posed for a few seconds at the conclusion of his swing, watching the ball trace a mesmerizing arc across the morning sky. The ball bounced in the middle of the fairway, 260 yards out, and he leaned down to pluck his tee from the ground. He bounced back up and smiled at me like a happy child. “Your turn!”

I suppressed a yawn. For some reason, now the nerves set in. I cursed the fact that I had stayed up until 1:30 am chatting on the internet. The five hour time difference with the US was ruining my daily schedule. I had selected a three-wood. The Swilkan burn crossed the fairway at roughly 300 yards. A driver could reach that with a healthy bounce if I really connected with it.

After shoving my tee into the ground and balancing my fresh Titleist on top, I glanced back at the clubhouse clock: 7:12 am. Seagulls screeched on the dunes. Grown men leaned on the fence of the practice putting green, watching. A single car passed by on the neighboring road. I saw my breath in the early chill. The fingers of my left hand clutched the grip while my right hand stretched outwards and upwards, lifting the sleeve of my collared shirt more comfortably onto my shoulder.

I approached the shining white ball in the center of the tee box, aligned my clubface and stared down the fairway. I could see the group ahead just teeing off on the second hole. A man on a riding mower cut the grass of the 17th green in the distance. The car that had passed by pulled into the parking lot of the hotel just beyond the 17th fairway. It was still 7:12 am.

I remember making contact. I remember watching the ball rise, peak and descend. I smiled and plucked my tee from the ground. My shoes slipped on the wet grass. Darrell gave me a high five and Daniel smiled. “Let us go play some golf, my friend!”

Kiva Han Countdown: 22 days

I've been pretty much a big bum today, loafing around and doing nothing of consequence, so I got my ass out here for some food and coffee and to do some work. Hangover cure + cappuccino = delicious motivation.

How long do travel coffee mugs "last", so to speak? I mean, if I use mine every day for a couple of years, is that pushing its limit? I usually just rinse it out with hot water every day, and scrub it with soap every few days, and then run it through the dishwasher every couple of weeks if it looks particularly dirty. I've had this particular one since senior year of college. It has the logo of the college's environmental action group. They were handing them out one day and I took one and decided to use it all the time and avoid carrying paper cups whenever possible, and that's what I've done since then. If I think I might be getting coffee while I'm out, I'll carry it with me.

I wish more people would do the same. Seeing all of the paper cups that get carried out, that end up in the trash, that get strewn on the street … it's not a really huge problem, but it's something that's so easy to fix. Just carry a mug.

Hah. I just got up after typing that sentence to bus my plate and could barely even throw a napking, what with all the cups protruding from the trash can. C'mon people. If you're going to be sitting here long enough to finish your coffee and throw it away, at least get it in a ceramic mug.

Kiva Han Countdown: 26 days (yesterday's post)

I stopped by for a quick cup of tea on my way to the Southside for a concert because I was feeling like a little congestion/cold was creeping up on me. I got a green tea and sat in the corner table by the window to read a book. The barista wrapped the string of the tea bag around the handle of my travel mug so it wouldn't disappear into the depths, only to be retrievable by pinching my fingers into its boiling lava. Smart move, my friend.

I hadn't been sitting there all that long when I heard a little skittering sound coming from above and descending. I momentarily thought it was a tree branch scraping the window or something, but then realized there aren't any tree branches within reach of that window. A split second later, a piece of ice or two landed on the side of my table and bounced to the floor. I heard laughter and giggling coming from above. Luckily, there was no damage to my book or other effects, so I kinda chuckled to myself and leaned over to look up. There is a tiny gap along that window/wall wherein a customer sitting on the second floor can potentially (or actually) spill something and have it come sailing down to the first floor with only gravity on its side and a floor in its way. A young lady happened to be leaning over to look downward at that moment, and she giggled out, "Sorry about that!", and I said, "No problem!, and waved back. And that was that.

The strange thing is … that is the second time that has happened to me there! Same table. Same situation. Except the last time, I think someone spilled their entire iced coffee on the floor up there, and it dripped down slowly onto the side of the table for a short while and hit a book or two I had with me. I'm sure that person was more focused on cleaning up their own spillage on their own stuff, so I didn't really begrudge them not acknowledging the fact that I got hit, too. Oh well. This time, it seemed to be just ice water … well, actually, just ice. So, NBD.

Side note: they were playing a lot of Blink 182 while I was there. I only know this because I recognized "All The Small Things" and then the rest of the songs sounded exactly like that one. Now, I only recognized that song because my college roommate used to play it a lot and sing along in his humorous, fake emo voice. He was very good at imitating that whiny, nasal tone. A little too good. I think he secretly liked that song, but he also introduced me to Interpol and Radiohead and Modest Mouse, so it's all good.

Some old, some new: British Sea Power

Okay, the holiday season is wrapping up, students are getting back into the swing of classes, musicians are warming up and starting to tour again, and labels have awakened from the sleepy late-December doldrums and have started to release the first candidates for "Best Music of 2k11". And by that I mean there's going to be some good new stuff coming out in the near future, after a few (relatively) agonizing weeks of pretty much nothingness.

The first promising release of the year, I think, comes from British Sea Power. Maybe you've heard of them? Maybe not. I first got into them in college thanks to a couple of friends who were fans. The songs on Open Season and The Decline of British Sea Power were pretty quirky and fun to my uninitiated ears and I listened to those albums periodically over a year or so after hearing them. A couple years later, I went to visit a friend in D.C. and was lucky enough to catch BSP playing at the Black Cat club one night, and that was pretty sweet. I hadn't listened to them recently enough, and the only song I actually recall them playing is "Apologies To Insect Life", but that was also before they put out Do You Like Rock Music?, so I imagine they played a few songs from that. My answer to that question was a resounding yes, by the way; the album is totally bombastic and sagging with guitar solos, which led some folks to rag on it (the infamous U.2 rating!), but I thought it was perfectly fun and listenable, so fuck p4k. I have honestly yet to listen to Man of Aran, their 2009 release that doubles as a soundtrack to a 1934 documentary film, but it seems interesting enough that I'll go back and watch and listen (maybe simultaneously!) at some point.

In the fall of 2010 they put out the Zeus EP, a not-so-unexpected departure from the aforementioned "straightforward rock" of the-album-with-the-inquisitive-title. Its eight songs span 34 minutes, which is rather long for an EP, and the ideas contained therein are expansive, as well; feedback on the guitars, tinkly piano, reverb on the vocals, languishing drones, squealing synths, and some kinda strange digital/autotune effect on the final track. It's strange and fascinating. It's BSP trying to get back to what they did best way back when: fuck with the standard rock formula. And they're doing this after they "perfected" it enough to get Pitchfork to equate them with the most "modern rock band"-ish of all "modern rock bands", these days.

And now, there's Valhalla Dancehall, officially released today, January 11, 2010. I listened to it (streaming on the AV Club) once through and found it be an interesting hybrid of these two paradigms they've embodied thus far in their career: quirky, classic-rock-inspired yet decidedly new and modern, guitar-heavy but vocally-driven indie-pop songs and over-the-top, can-you-possibly-squeeze-any-more-anthemic-guitar-riffs-and-choruses-in-there rockers. I'm looking forward to buying it (somehow). Will it be my favorite record of 2011? Seems unlikely. Will it be in my Top 10? Maybe, but that's hard to say. Will I enjoy listening to it in the meantime? Of course. So give it a shot. Maybe it'll be your favorite!

Here's a song from the new album:

and for completeness' and interest's sakes, here are some of my fave songs from their older albums (that I've heard), chronologically backwards: