Above is allegedly some failed Greg Norman golf/housing *development* in Bakersfield, CA. It was called McAllister Ranch and the interesting story is here.
And here's a great article on the plight of Central Massachusetts golf courses and country clubs - Economy Plagues Plenty Of Courses.
The *money* quote:
The good news is if you have the money, you can probably join any golf club you’d like. The bad news is you most likely don’t have the money.
And even beyond that reality, country club memberships, in the Northeast anyway, make ZERO financial sense.
3 comments:
I played Sawgrass last weekend. Nothing but a bunch of fat, red faced, pig eyed, sweating, huffing, farting rich white guys trying to make believe they were engaged in an athletic event.
The game is a joke.
The game stands on its own. It's not to be besmirched because of who plays it. For years I wouldn't consider yoga for that same misbegotten reason.
I prefer to play by myself or in a match with good golfers. I hate playing with twice-a-year hackers. In fact, I pretty much won't ever do it. And I'm not a big fan of social golf; no beer out on the course for me. When I imbibe, it has to be nightime - and there has to be music and women around.
For years I've dreamt of joining a country club but not any longer. Country clubs really are social clubs for geriatrics. The last thing I want to do is have to be artificially chummy with a bunch of undeserving wealthy clowns.
Though, you have admit, some of those fat 'old coots' can really fart impressively!
On a golf trip some 10 years ago, I let out some gas on my 'old coot' buddies. Silence swept the room for a moment while I giggled; they looked at each other and all laughed at me. Then, one by one, they all ripped monster farts in my direction. To this day they still mock that little "puff" of mine.
The game is diminished and will always be severely limited by those who play it (described above) and the tv announcers / promoters who moronically attempt to elevate the game to the level of a combination of Amway, cult religion, war, and sitting in front of a roaring fire eating apple pie while puppies jump in your lap.
The game, and it is a game not a sport, falls flat on its red, bloated, fetid face.
Post a Comment