Archive for September 2006
Thanks to Slam Online for passing along some of the lyrics on Ron Artest’s new album:
“I admit I used to smoke before games.”
“Hit the liquor store at halftime.”
“David Stern! Damn, David Stern. I gotta teach you bout the ghetto there’s some things you should learn.”
“Matt Lauer, up on NBC. You look like a girl don’t talk to me.”
We were on the fence about illegally downloading this but the opportunity to own music which calls out Matt Lauer is something we can’t pass up.
Can re-mixing Autumn Sweater be next for Ron?
The war on terror claims yet another innocent life. Byron Nelson has passed away. The coroner is calling it natural causes but our medical expert Dr. Syrill Jupta insists it’s the after-effects of the mailing he received from Islamo-Fascists.
In honor of Byron’s life and his sacrifice to the nation we have asked resident poet G Bashbery to compose a poem and a brief explanation of his work.
A bunch a shady sticks lie sullen in the rumpled carcas of our old friend,
Who would pitch with these old relics
who would fly the tight white spot across the sky and up upon the dance
these are the tools of old, wise Hafestus, wrought fondly out of iron ore
golf golf golfin’ on the tenth hole’s door
we ride the smarmy wrack to most uncertain victory
golf is a silly sport, and the methods we employ do follow
why an art, escapes me now, but tride and true it proves it
Lazy green feathers float around the sides
pools of sticky water lurk to thwart one’s pride
heavy in the heavy folicles tries the patience of one’s soul
pray I do not hit the soup, o heaven’s ghastly ghoul
a bird came down the path
I would to smite that bird
for he who enters feels my wrarth
a foot upon said bird
yet now I alter not my course
I see the end is near
And bravely I recall the worst
why golf, my greatest fear
In the first stanza I attack the idea that golf is changing, quite possibly for the worse. Golf is modulating out of the tools that made it great, theclassical tools if you will (thus the reference to Hafestus Greek god ofmetallurgy). No longer are the clubs metal but graphic and super-enhancedto try to magically improve everyone’s game. That I feel steals from golf the skill that makes great players great, that element of challenge thatgreat players can overcome. Even leather (therein the reference to oldfriend Cow) is forsaken for the more efficient nylon.
In the second stanza I pay homage to Dylan for I feel that golf has thecapability to do to the future what dylon did for the sixties. It justneeds to make the turn well thus I place golf on the tenth hole, it needs a good back nine to waltz on towards the future ahead above all other sports. Golf can be many things to many people, but it is an art, although one that “escapes me now” that is now as I sit here and right because golf is an art that must be experience (like modern dance, but not as boring).
In the third stanza I break poetic my previous poetic style and become morelyrical, this is because I have reminded myself of the pleasure and challenge that golf defines. It is the horrors on the soup and thepleasures of avoiding the traps that give me this heightened sense of lyricism and sense of nostalgia.
Yet the forth stanza brings my idea full circle; I am also reminded on the turning point golf is on and the powerlessness I feel towards changing it. It is sheer frustration as expressed in my wanting to smite the bird ofnature, just as I see the future of golf possibly smiting the natural order of being from whence it came. Yet I do foresee quite lucidly I think. I think that the end of golf as we know it is possibly upon us, a great turmolt is taking place right now in the golf world. I think “bravely” of the worst that golf could possibly become and I shudder, it is my greatest fear to have golf estranged from the nature which makes it great, the nature which makes golf, golf. I ask why golf, for it is my greatest fear that golf will subcumb to the wisdom of the world, why is golf being struck right now. But there is an element of hope, for golf may emerge more virile in the old ways and more seasoned towards to opposition if nature runs its course. And that, my dear Rebuilding Year reader, is my greatest hope.