Joe!
Don't ask...
Monday, August 20, 2018
Saturday, August 18, 2018
The bear on number 2 fairway...
Something caught my eye out on what used to be number two fairway. A damn tree hugger!
Friday, August 17, 2018
Pete Peters and his buddy Darryl
Pete Peters joined the Eagle challenge on Thursday last. Known for having his cigarette "before" he and his friend had a ball!
(pun intended)
Note: Pete tempered his pace for his friends sake and never once tried to out run his cart!
The tree we all love to hate (the oak on 16) still houses a white orb presumably assumed loss by the golfer to hit it there! We know this is quite possible since Coach did it months ago on 13.
(pun intended)
Note: Pete tempered his pace for his friends sake and never once tried to out run his cart!
The tree we all love to hate (the oak on 16) still houses a white orb presumably assumed loss by the golfer to hit it there! We know this is quite possible since Coach did it months ago on 13.
Monday, August 13, 2018
Wednesday, August 8, 2018
Nostalgia...
Some images of us ... if I missed you, I'll get you next time.
(stay for the whole 8 plus minutes!)
Saturday, August 4, 2018
The "Hoax"
You believe it's all a hoax? Check this out: Your blog has had 41 hits from Russia in the past 5 days.... 9 from the United States and 1 from Indonesia...
Doo Doo Doo, lookin' out my back door ... 1970, Creedence
I keep thinking of Charlton Heston in "Soylent Green.” The sky is completely obliterated in fog, smog, and smoke throughout the entire movie. Heston is always bathed in sweat; his fetid, stained clothes never change their appearance, all conveying: “It’s fucking hot, it’s been fucking hot, and it’s going to be fucking hot.” The only high spot in the whole movie is Leigh Taylor-Young—I still own obscene ideas about her.
So here we are in the “Soylent” sky and air, waiting for this movie to end or Leigh to come over to borrow a cup of sugar, the former being more likely. I feel like I need an iron lung after going to Raley’s, and my utility bill is at war with my wallet, which seemed bad enough until I heard an angler near Fish Camp say he heard trout coughing.
Waking to “the world is my barbecue” is not the way to start the day! I know there are hills behind that opaque smoke, firemen looking much like Heston without a Leigh Taylor-Young reward when the day ends. Still, there are no trucks pulling up to hoards and hoards seeking their share, or more, of the green wafer, and the tourist-free aisles of Raley’s mean shorter checkout lines. All the while, satellite pictures disguise any indication that Oakhurst really exists under all that gray foam; chances are, when it clears, Leigh Taylor-Young still will not be my caddy, and Heston won’t be trying to part the waters at Bass Lake.
It’s Oakhurst, a “coincidental” city made by intersecting arteries. It ain’t Paris, the Bronx, or Bora Bora; of late, it conjures images more like Pompeii. But one thing is for sure about us coincidental residents: we’ll know a green wafer when we see it.
Besides, I figure when it comes to that, the city folk will go “Donner Party” long before us!
Don't be fooled; they're here!
So here we are in the “Soylent” sky and air, waiting for this movie to end or Leigh to come over to borrow a cup of sugar, the former being more likely. I feel like I need an iron lung after going to Raley’s, and my utility bill is at war with my wallet, which seemed bad enough until I heard an angler near Fish Camp say he heard trout coughing.
Waking to “the world is my barbecue” is not the way to start the day! I know there are hills behind that opaque smoke, firemen looking much like Heston without a Leigh Taylor-Young reward when the day ends. Still, there are no trucks pulling up to hoards and hoards seeking their share, or more, of the green wafer, and the tourist-free aisles of Raley’s mean shorter checkout lines. All the while, satellite pictures disguise any indication that Oakhurst really exists under all that gray foam; chances are, when it clears, Leigh Taylor-Young still will not be my caddy, and Heston won’t be trying to part the waters at Bass Lake.
It’s Oakhurst, a “coincidental” city made by intersecting arteries. It ain’t Paris, the Bronx, or Bora Bora; of late, it conjures images more like Pompeii. But one thing is for sure about us coincidental residents: we’ll know a green wafer when we see it.
Besides, I figure when it comes to that, the city folk will go “Donner Party” long before us!
Don't be fooled; they're here!
The Soylent sky outside my window
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