What Do You Call A Black Guy Flying An Airplane? (republished post from March 2009)

A pilot, you racist.

Jokes aside, spring has sprung. Can you hear the music?

For me, there's warmth and sustenance in the manna from Bobby Jones's little toonamint which starts in less than two weeks. Golf's big boys will kiss the King's ring in Orlando, swing through Houston, and re-assemble at the Cathedral of Golf that is Augusta National.

Way before I became a curmudgeonly ex-lawyer and cyber-entrepreneur, there was, and there remains, an epic quality to the Masters which I will admit holds me spellbound, if not because of the ethereal atmosphere created by their meticulous greenskeeping, then only for the theater of human folly which is golf, placed on emerald pedestals amid the looming yellow pines, bright azaleas, and wound around the depths of Rae's Creek.

The Masters mythology lives in the same realms as the World Series, the Super Bowl, the Kentucky Derby, Daytona, Indy, and, okay, sometimes the Stanley Cup.

In spite of the degrees of separation experienced in daily drudgery, what passes as a banal earthly existence becomes the stuff of legend when we gather for these cultural festivals, when simple human will expels the fickle formulations of spreadsheets and peurile aspirations of foolish discretion. There is a shared ethos in sport that gives substance in its immediacy. Reality TV also gives spectacle, but is empty of character. It is perverse where sportsmanship is noble.


Fans who consider themselves to be "purists" may now be only remnants of those who have loved sports. The couch-riding, nacho-slurping, beer guzzler shatters the myth in the same way fat Roman child molesters cheered for their favorite gladiator in the Colisseum. That is one of the realities, as are the obsene piles of money changing hands as fans wager predictions among the winners and losers.

All the more reason, I think, the Masters is a special event. Its values and venue serve to give to golfers and fans alike, but especially to golfers who cherish the game, a chance to portray to the world, a higher ideal. At this level, golf is not merely token fancy. At Augusta, you are a "Patron", sharing in the competition in a process taking you beyond mere spectator. For golfers, the Masters allows us to partake of the experience whereby we look into ourselves.

Epic sporting events mark time, so that you can know what you were doing, where you were, at a given point during your life. Humans have always sought these archetypal reference points, and the individual dramas played out provide the particular shared experiences for us not only to enjoy, but to draw upon, for whatever we need that is good; whatever we need that endures; whatever we need that triumphs; whatever we need, whatever that may be.

Whether the thrill of victory or the agony of defeat, we golfers share unlike any other sport, a knowledge of our impermanence and the frailty of human endeavor. Yet, we gather again, to show the world there is another world of better things.

The event is not without taint. As a 500-plus year old game, golf has had a beleaguered history fueled by social contingencies, sometimes castigated and sometimes praised by agents of social change. But a real golfer will tell you there are few greater joys than the freedom of spirit found in our game.


Ultimately, though, pro golf is a game of Sorrows. Like every shot in life that we have ever taken, our old selves are dead and gone. You will never play a round of golf as the same golfer you were. The Masters makes an exta effort to pay homage to the amateur golfer, who has nothing to gain from shooting 65 on Sunday. The touching scene of Ben Crenshaw's 1995 victory serves as my own "Masters moment" because the price of victory was death. Transcending sports, the Masters serves as an "F--- You" to the slimy, ugly, and vulgar things in life.

I'll see you on the back nine Sunday.

[NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: The above essay was posted on my previous blog, "Wit, Gun and Stein" on March 26, 2009 and is presented again for the benefit of golf aficionados and fans of the good side of Tradition -- everywhere.]

 

 © 2009 by Roy Santonil

Don't give up. DON'T EVER GIVE UP.

That'll do, pig.

IN THE BEGINNING . . . 

there was "WIT, GUN, and STEIN." That was the title of my first blog. 

Some of you already knew that.

WGS existed from January 2009 to March 2011. 

In it, I mixed blood, sweat, and tears, with golf course and music reviews. Sometimes, I tried to be funny.

Not much is left of WGS, other than the internet way-back machine archives, which means some but not all of the internet, lasts forever. 

Some of the internet just dies. Notwithstanding the grandiose experiment in literary expression and political polemic, I feel successful in having conducted my verbal excercise, working through variously apt sub-titles, patching together broken phrases, just to say: "Hey. Words mean things."

For example:

 WGS -- "3 Things You Will Need For The End Times"

As it turns out, the reference to  "End Times" was a bit melodramatic. Too early, perhaps?

Wittgenstein, get it?

Another sub-title was:  

• WGS - "A Golf Blog. Between Rounds"

And, frankly, it was that, first and foremost. But the work needed more, something more than the game of golf, which I love, but still, it required something more relevant to those with ears to hear.

I tried "You Have the Floor," and "Floor It." (above)

Nah. 

Finally, I ended up with

• WGS - "Too Old To Care. Too Young To Quit." 

Ah, the sweet spot. Just the right sub-title. Explains just what I am doing, and why I do it.

Dad's death in 2011 was an actual apocalypse ... for me and for him. 

And so ended WGS.

Yet my compulsion to write would not rest. 

Writers write because their visions are their release. 

I think, yes, in the long run, ultimately, writing is a process of self-editing. And every writer's raw material, the archetypes, the ideas, myths, their experience, and opinions, exist a priori. Then they are birthed for the world at large, for those with eyes to see.

Please, Sir, More Swill

Thus spake "English Swill."

My first resurrection as a content creator turned into something more polemical than WGS. 

The Swill began publication late in 2011. 

Concurrently, I was faced with the fact that the liberal stronghold of institutional learning were gaining influence in my personal life. I began writing with greater dismay, on topics related to my observations about 21st century American life, the stark differences between conservative and progressive politics, the rickety bridge between old and young, while trying to keep faith with humor, music, and yes, more golf.  I spent years stirring digital swill with English words. It was decent.

 "Wordsmithery -- At The Bottom Of The Barrel," 

By Christmas 2018, all my efforts to provide generational guidance crumbled under the sledgehammer of corporate media marketing and outright fraudulent deception (Hello, Congressman Schiff). I even tried to write rap lyrics, a vain effort to explain my thoughts about what constitutes proper American jurisprudence (damn you, Fox Network). Sadly, only (1) one post that was served from English Swill survived the corporate pogroms of the Trump years. 

But it was one of my favorites, a classic rant on immigration policy.

Anyway, the Swill dried up because well ... you know ... the President spoke for millions, if not billions, of U.S. citizens. 

Fast forward to 2022. 

All over the globe, for the last 23 months, there's been only one pervasive topic: the COVID. With this third effort (second resurrection) - BOOMERS ANONYMOUS - I plan to go far beyond the political shills, their sketchy fuckery; beyond the vast, innumerable scams put forth by the mainstream grift, the purportedly authoritative, sources . . . on and offline.  

If you are reading this, congratulations, you have ventured light years from the mainstream.

Together we sit perched and prayerful. It is the beginning of the end of Fauci's Folly, on the verge of 'the Great Awakening," or "the Great Reset," or "the Fourth Turning," or "the Quickening," or "the 5G rollout," "the Year of the Water Tiger," or even "Jewish New Year 5782," or just plain old 2022 C.E. 

I personally have found my home ... in the shade of the freeway ... and have filled in most of the missing colors in mine and my bride's paint-by-number dreams. Generational biases have been exposed. Becoming socially relevant is irrelevant to us.  

It's Time To Own It, Boomers.

But persist. Keep runnin' down the dream, take off those dark sunglasses, and mow that lawn ... taste the wine. Frankly, my dear reader ... there still a giant load of stuff to share, a lot of worldly crap that needs a response, even if it comes off as ... back-of-the-cereal-box philosophy. 

When the inter webs were born, some corporate media mogul said,

"Content is king." 

What he forgot to remember was that the medium is still the message. 

So. 

Here we are.

Every Internet Post in the World

We're boomers. We've got decades worth of content. We've earned it.

This is OUR safe space, and your subscription seals the deal!

Share with other baby boomers. Share with an intelligent millennial or even an open minded Gen X'er, if that's not an oxymoron.

Everyone on the internet plus their Uncle Bob wants you to Like, Share, Comment, and Subscribe to their shit ... ads nauseaum. 

(Spelling intended.)

I'm shamelessly asking you to do the same. 

Don't think of it as Spam. Think of it as Corn Flakes and Milk.

 And you may ask yourself, "Why should I follow your blog, 15ML?"

No reason. It's just goddamn social media! 

But remember ... here, kids eat free.

 © 2022 by Roy Santonil