So the new season of Lost debuted last week, and featured the island or the people on it to jump back and forth in time like a hyperactive child sitting behind you on a plane. And like said child, there is a danger inherent in the behavior. The danger is that I'll stop watching the show, like I might slaughter the child with extreme prejudice, if the behavior persists. And here's the reason why: there's just too much that can go wrong.
For any of you who saw the recent film Deja Vu starring Denzel Washington and a paunchy Val Kilmer, I'm about to revisit the concept of time travel there. So if you haven't seen it, stay tuned and I'll save you the 2 hours. Here's the premise: a terrorist blows up a ferry killing hundreds, and Denny's an ATF guy who's trying to find who did it. Enter Kilmer's team, who posses a sophisticated technology allowing one to look three days in the past, within a certain area. So they try to use the technology to see who did it, and after watching a hot girl shower and Denny's partner get killed, they finally see who did it. Denny then wonders why you can't use the technology to travel back in time and stop the tragedy from ever occurring. Despite assurances to the contrary, Denny travels back three days and changes things.
Okay. Here's the problem. He finds several clues that seem to suggest that he can prevent it. The girl gets killed by the terrorist and he finds clues at her apartment, like a message of refrigerator magnets and bloody tissues in her bathroom. It turns out that the message came from Denny when he traveled back in time, and the blood was his after being shot. So the clues that he left for himself when he traveled back in time are the clues that he uses to figure out that he can travel back in time and eventually helps him change the past. The only problem is that he already went back to the past and didn't change it, otherwise there wouldn't have been the clues there! You following me? Stick with me, it gets a little confusing from here. So why wasn't he able to change the past the first time? Because if he had he wouldn't have had a reason to go back again, right? He wouldn't have even known about the technology because they wouldn't have come down to help in the search. But how then did he go back and change things if the mechanism to go back and change things wouldn't be available if he did change things? You see? And that's with just one person, making one very specific change only three days in the past.
Now, apply this to Lost. You have a dozen or so people skipping around in time, to multiple times in the past on an island whose rules of behavior are already a little screwy. So multiple people have multiple opportunities to change multiple things, right? And even though the "expert" (Daniel) says they mustn't change things, he promptly tries to change things (and apparently does). So does Locke through several meetings with Richard and Ethan. And when Daniel changes the past, Desmond immediately seems to feel the effects of the change in the future (the future off the island, which is on a different timeline than the island, as if things weren't messed up enough). So did Desmond just now have that memory implanted? Did he recognize Daniel last season when the two met since in his timeline he'd already had the encounter? Did Daniel have to progress to the point in his life (or the present) to the moment when he goes into the past? But then this brings up the problem of someone in the future going back to add new information or change something in the past which would then change the future and might negate the future that allowed the guy to go back into the past and change things. The problems inherent in this storytelling are multitudinous.
You see what I'm saying? I'm sure this isn't an original objection raised to the creators of the show, and I hope they've thought loooong and haaarrd about how to pull this off. Personally I think that they should just eschew further plot lines involving time travel. And all this is the more puzzling if you refer to the episode last season where Desmond and Daniel's past first cross, when Desmond's consciousness seems to be traveling back in time and he must find his Constant to stop him from dying. The concept of only being able to time travel your consciousness back in time, so that your old mind is temporarily replaced by the "current" mind was far less theoretically problematic, even though it still had "changing the past to save the future" themes. Moreover, it was just a brilliantly written and executed episode with great emotion and pathos. If the writers can continue to provide such wonderful insight into the characters' psyches then I'll overlook a certain amount of sloppy and confusing plots. But the main appeal of the show has been the mysterious nature of the island, the strange and seemingly supernatural events that occur, and thus the explanation of some of these phenomena has to be at least relatively plausible and coherent. Otherwise they'll destroy the credit they've created with their audience, and doom the show to historical disappointment.
All this is to say that I remain cautiously optimistic about the show. The last season was so consistently good that my faith in the writers will keep me hopeful for the rest of this season.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Saturday, January 24, 2009
The Disturbing Love of God
There is something disturbing about the love of God. Do you really think about God's love for us? I mean really? Here's a love that kills His own Son to be with us. We say "Oh, thank you Lord" with glazed eyes and dewy tones, and don't really let the notion sink in. This God killed His Son! Out of love! That's a little unsettling, and becomes more alarming the more you think about it.
Imagine you're a woman. Not a difficult task for some of you, more so for others. Regardless, you're a woman and a man has fallen in love with you. You're not really interested in him all that much. He seems nice enough, he makes some bold claims and appears to be able to back them up. Still, you're not bowled over. Then, he up and kills his son, his only son whom you have seen him dote upon, whom he has told you time and again is the absolute apple of his eye. And he kills him! For you! And you don't even like him all that much! Now, wouldn't you be a bit wary of this guy? Who is so overwhelmed with passion for you that he kills his son in order for the two of you to be together? That's a disturbing prospect!
Now don't get me wrong. This isn't meant to make you question your faith, to take a new look at the Gospel and shake your head and say "well, that's messed up, I think I'll stay home Sunday morning from now on." Far from it. The point is simply to illustrate the absolute ferocity of God's love for us. That's why I love Hosea and the portrait painted by God in that book. Hosea's wife has run off and committed adultery. That's bad enough to have her stoned to death in ancient Israel, and to kick her to the curb even now in this relativistic age we live in. But then she becomes a prostitute! Forget about the personal betrayal for a moment; can you imagine the disgrace, the shame, the justifiable anger Hosea must have felt upon hearing about this? The prophet of the Lord, the chosen one designated to bring the Word of God to His chosen people, the chosen of the chosen, the holiest man on earth at the time (for that's basically who the prophet was in those days), a model for the Israelites to look to, and his wife's a whore! She's for sale! This prophet of God can't even keep his wife from the red light district! I imagine the rulers and priests murmuring, "What kind of a man is this who speaks the Word of Yaweh yet loses control of his wife? Can we even trust him at all? Is it possible that he isn't actually the prophet of the Lord? And if so, then why would God chose this guy? What's God up to? Has He gotten confused?" Add this to the personal sense of betrayal that Hosea must have felt as a man, a Hebrew, and a deeply religious individual, and the tension must have been unbearable!
So what then does God do? He tells Hosea to go and claim his wife, to bring her back and make her his wife in reality as well as name. Rather than reject her for her sins against him and against God, which would be completely justifiable and understandable, even commendable, God tells Hosea to go buy her back. (She was selling herself into slavery. As if the humiliation of prostitution wasn't enough, she was reduced even further to a slave, a piece of livestock.) But what a picture of God's love! To run after his bride, who has betrayed him in every possible way! Not only to persue her once again, but to even buy her back, to spend wealth to claim her again in the midst of her sins, at her lowest possible point!
I sat down and wrote this in about 20 minutes, as the spirit of contrition is upon me. Even today I have sinned grievously against God in my mind and in my body. The familiar stench of dispair swirled around me as I read a chapter in The Ragamuffin Gospel (Brennan Manning). This post was inspired by a quote from his chapter "The Second Call." Here's the quote:
'And God answers "That's what you don't know. You don't know how much I love you. The moment you think you understand is the moment you do not understand...My words are written in the blood of My only Son.'
I was stricken by those words. Too often I imagine that I have pushed God too far, that my sin or my despondency or my laziness or my disbelief or my self-loathing or my pride or my insensativity or my fear have driven a wedge between me and God. And that's because I have forgotten how little I know about God, how much He loves me, how He has called me His own.
This is the third verse of Rich Mullins' song "The Love of God".
Joy and Sorrow are these Oceans
And in their very Ebb and Flow
Still a Door the Lord Has Opened
That all Hell could Never Close
Here I'm Tested
And Made Worthy
Tossed About
But Lifted Up
In the Reckless
Raging
Fury
That they call
The Love of God
Amen.
Imagine you're a woman. Not a difficult task for some of you, more so for others. Regardless, you're a woman and a man has fallen in love with you. You're not really interested in him all that much. He seems nice enough, he makes some bold claims and appears to be able to back them up. Still, you're not bowled over. Then, he up and kills his son, his only son whom you have seen him dote upon, whom he has told you time and again is the absolute apple of his eye. And he kills him! For you! And you don't even like him all that much! Now, wouldn't you be a bit wary of this guy? Who is so overwhelmed with passion for you that he kills his son in order for the two of you to be together? That's a disturbing prospect!
Now don't get me wrong. This isn't meant to make you question your faith, to take a new look at the Gospel and shake your head and say "well, that's messed up, I think I'll stay home Sunday morning from now on." Far from it. The point is simply to illustrate the absolute ferocity of God's love for us. That's why I love Hosea and the portrait painted by God in that book. Hosea's wife has run off and committed adultery. That's bad enough to have her stoned to death in ancient Israel, and to kick her to the curb even now in this relativistic age we live in. But then she becomes a prostitute! Forget about the personal betrayal for a moment; can you imagine the disgrace, the shame, the justifiable anger Hosea must have felt upon hearing about this? The prophet of the Lord, the chosen one designated to bring the Word of God to His chosen people, the chosen of the chosen, the holiest man on earth at the time (for that's basically who the prophet was in those days), a model for the Israelites to look to, and his wife's a whore! She's for sale! This prophet of God can't even keep his wife from the red light district! I imagine the rulers and priests murmuring, "What kind of a man is this who speaks the Word of Yaweh yet loses control of his wife? Can we even trust him at all? Is it possible that he isn't actually the prophet of the Lord? And if so, then why would God chose this guy? What's God up to? Has He gotten confused?" Add this to the personal sense of betrayal that Hosea must have felt as a man, a Hebrew, and a deeply religious individual, and the tension must have been unbearable!
So what then does God do? He tells Hosea to go and claim his wife, to bring her back and make her his wife in reality as well as name. Rather than reject her for her sins against him and against God, which would be completely justifiable and understandable, even commendable, God tells Hosea to go buy her back. (She was selling herself into slavery. As if the humiliation of prostitution wasn't enough, she was reduced even further to a slave, a piece of livestock.) But what a picture of God's love! To run after his bride, who has betrayed him in every possible way! Not only to persue her once again, but to even buy her back, to spend wealth to claim her again in the midst of her sins, at her lowest possible point!
I sat down and wrote this in about 20 minutes, as the spirit of contrition is upon me. Even today I have sinned grievously against God in my mind and in my body. The familiar stench of dispair swirled around me as I read a chapter in The Ragamuffin Gospel (Brennan Manning). This post was inspired by a quote from his chapter "The Second Call." Here's the quote:
'And God answers "That's what you don't know. You don't know how much I love you. The moment you think you understand is the moment you do not understand...My words are written in the blood of My only Son.'
I was stricken by those words. Too often I imagine that I have pushed God too far, that my sin or my despondency or my laziness or my disbelief or my self-loathing or my pride or my insensativity or my fear have driven a wedge between me and God. And that's because I have forgotten how little I know about God, how much He loves me, how He has called me His own.
This is the third verse of Rich Mullins' song "The Love of God".
Joy and Sorrow are these Oceans
And in their very Ebb and Flow
Still a Door the Lord Has Opened
That all Hell could Never Close
Here I'm Tested
And Made Worthy
Tossed About
But Lifted Up
In the Reckless
Raging
Fury
That they call
The Love of God
Amen.
Movie Review: The Scarlet Pimpernel
The Scarlet Pimpernel (1982)
International intrigue, love, betrayal, fighting, fencing, daring prison escapes, masterful disguises, gorgeous women, striking settings, lavish costumes, treachery, thrilling music, historical events, revolution, revenge, and redemption. Oh, and some bang-up acting. No, this isn’t a top contender for this year’s Oscars. Or even last year’s. It’s The Scarlet Pimpernel, the delicious romp featuring Anthony Andrews, Jane Seymour, and Ian McKellen (before his knighthood).
Set during the blood-soaked days of the French Revolution, the film revolves around the fictional character created by Baroness Emmuska Orczy. An English aristocrat named Sir Percy Blakeney played by Andrews engages on a daring and dangerous mission to save as many French aristocrats from the guillotine as he can. The republicans have seized power and are methodically executing any and all “aristos” as the mob slakes their thirst for retribution for long centuries of oppression. With the culminating abuses that caused revolution still fresh in their minds, bloodthirsty cries of the rabble of peasants and bourgeoisie chillingly portrayed here hearkens back memories of the Coliseum in Roman days. The Scarlet Pimpernel, disapproving of the heinousness and senselessness of punishing all aristocrats for the sins of a few, creates a league of like minded Englishmen and smuggles a few aristocrats out whenever possible. Assuming a variety of disguises to hoodwink the guards, the English spirit away enough nobles to raise the ire of the fledgling government.
Simultaneously, Percy meets and is immediately infatuated with Seymour’s Marguerite St. Just, an actress of notoriety when he rescues her brother Armand from thugs. The chemistry is instantly apparent, and the romance ensues. Coincidentally, Marguerite’s fiancée is Paul Chauvelin, an ambitious prosecutor in the government played by McKellen, who is given the task of hunting down the elusive Pimpernel. Tensions mount as Percy woos Marguerite away from Chauvelin while plotting to rescue the Dauphin, the heavily guarded son of the deposed Louis XVI and heir to the throne.
Made in 1982, the first impression of the film is that it must be a made-for-TV movie. The style, cinematography, and lighting all lack the high caliber finished appearance that most studio films posses. And while the costumes, sets, music, and general execution leave nothing to be desired, the technical film snob may find their assessment of the film adversely colored by this first impression. However, the stripped down sensation, the lack of brilliant and vibrant colors only serve to enhance the verisimilitude in my estimation. While big budget blockbusters like The Duchess or Elizabeth have a glossy veneer that please the eyes and enhance the elaborate décor and bright costumes such movies can afford, the muted and subdued look of this movie convince the viewer that the events and look of life in the late 18th century resembled the portrayal in The Scarlet Pimpernel as opposed to the bigger budget films.
There is enough plot twists and turns to satisfy the viewer looking for an exciting story, with enough glamor and reflection to appeal to the more thoughtful viewer. I myself first saw this movie at the age of 9 or 10, and have sustained my enjoyment of it through the present. As with the best of movies, the more I mature and understand the subtitles of the world and its workings, the more I see these subtleties displayed in the quality movies I enjoy, and The Scarlet Pimpernel fully qualifies for this categorization.
All three main actors bring depth and nuance to their performances, and I can honestly say that none of the supporting cast ever falters or delivers an exaggerated line. Seymour is young and luscious as the superstar actress of her day. McKellen is terrifically frustrated and conniving as the antagonist Chauvelin. Andrews masterfully changes from fashion-obsessed fop to grimly determined savior to star crossed lover without ever causing doubt as to the veracity of any role. The sets are detailed and satisfying while not seeming artificially produced. I can almost imagine some of the rugs or gowns that appear having been appropriated from a nobleman’s manor or a historical society’s collection. They don’t look too good, if that makes sense. The music punctuates the drama very well, bringing an air of lightheartedness and frivolity to the courtship scenes while appropriately dramatic and ominous when circumstances turn dire. Throw in a lovely castle on the seashore, complete with a very authentic-looking sword duel to climax the film, and the viewer is left with no complaints.
It’s a crackling good yarn, the story is, but I must caution those viewers who have little patience for “slow” movies. The language isn’t Shakespearean (i.e. incomprehensible to 85% of American moviegoers), the accents are clear and British (even the “French” people; some accuracy must be sacrificed for clarity and plot progression and this raises no complaint from me), and the plot isn’t very complicated (there are a number of characters, but a second viewing clears up any confusion, or simply paying close attention). However, for those who disdain and avoid historical movies that don’t have epic battles (Braveheart, Gladiator, et al), it may not be your cup of tea. There is no language, no sex (that is, no nudity or even people rolling around in the hay), and no violence (that is, no blood and gore; people get their heads cut off, but you don’t see much), so it’s not going to have the immediate appeal that most studios seem to feel are necessary to capture an audience’s attention. If you can look past these “deficiencies” then a wonderful movie experience awaits you in The Scarlet Pimpernel.
8 out of 10.
International intrigue, love, betrayal, fighting, fencing, daring prison escapes, masterful disguises, gorgeous women, striking settings, lavish costumes, treachery, thrilling music, historical events, revolution, revenge, and redemption. Oh, and some bang-up acting. No, this isn’t a top contender for this year’s Oscars. Or even last year’s. It’s The Scarlet Pimpernel, the delicious romp featuring Anthony Andrews, Jane Seymour, and Ian McKellen (before his knighthood).
Set during the blood-soaked days of the French Revolution, the film revolves around the fictional character created by Baroness Emmuska Orczy. An English aristocrat named Sir Percy Blakeney played by Andrews engages on a daring and dangerous mission to save as many French aristocrats from the guillotine as he can. The republicans have seized power and are methodically executing any and all “aristos” as the mob slakes their thirst for retribution for long centuries of oppression. With the culminating abuses that caused revolution still fresh in their minds, bloodthirsty cries of the rabble of peasants and bourgeoisie chillingly portrayed here hearkens back memories of the Coliseum in Roman days. The Scarlet Pimpernel, disapproving of the heinousness and senselessness of punishing all aristocrats for the sins of a few, creates a league of like minded Englishmen and smuggles a few aristocrats out whenever possible. Assuming a variety of disguises to hoodwink the guards, the English spirit away enough nobles to raise the ire of the fledgling government.
Simultaneously, Percy meets and is immediately infatuated with Seymour’s Marguerite St. Just, an actress of notoriety when he rescues her brother Armand from thugs. The chemistry is instantly apparent, and the romance ensues. Coincidentally, Marguerite’s fiancée is Paul Chauvelin, an ambitious prosecutor in the government played by McKellen, who is given the task of hunting down the elusive Pimpernel. Tensions mount as Percy woos Marguerite away from Chauvelin while plotting to rescue the Dauphin, the heavily guarded son of the deposed Louis XVI and heir to the throne.
Made in 1982, the first impression of the film is that it must be a made-for-TV movie. The style, cinematography, and lighting all lack the high caliber finished appearance that most studio films posses. And while the costumes, sets, music, and general execution leave nothing to be desired, the technical film snob may find their assessment of the film adversely colored by this first impression. However, the stripped down sensation, the lack of brilliant and vibrant colors only serve to enhance the verisimilitude in my estimation. While big budget blockbusters like The Duchess or Elizabeth have a glossy veneer that please the eyes and enhance the elaborate décor and bright costumes such movies can afford, the muted and subdued look of this movie convince the viewer that the events and look of life in the late 18th century resembled the portrayal in The Scarlet Pimpernel as opposed to the bigger budget films.
There is enough plot twists and turns to satisfy the viewer looking for an exciting story, with enough glamor and reflection to appeal to the more thoughtful viewer. I myself first saw this movie at the age of 9 or 10, and have sustained my enjoyment of it through the present. As with the best of movies, the more I mature and understand the subtitles of the world and its workings, the more I see these subtleties displayed in the quality movies I enjoy, and The Scarlet Pimpernel fully qualifies for this categorization.
All three main actors bring depth and nuance to their performances, and I can honestly say that none of the supporting cast ever falters or delivers an exaggerated line. Seymour is young and luscious as the superstar actress of her day. McKellen is terrifically frustrated and conniving as the antagonist Chauvelin. Andrews masterfully changes from fashion-obsessed fop to grimly determined savior to star crossed lover without ever causing doubt as to the veracity of any role. The sets are detailed and satisfying while not seeming artificially produced. I can almost imagine some of the rugs or gowns that appear having been appropriated from a nobleman’s manor or a historical society’s collection. They don’t look too good, if that makes sense. The music punctuates the drama very well, bringing an air of lightheartedness and frivolity to the courtship scenes while appropriately dramatic and ominous when circumstances turn dire. Throw in a lovely castle on the seashore, complete with a very authentic-looking sword duel to climax the film, and the viewer is left with no complaints.
It’s a crackling good yarn, the story is, but I must caution those viewers who have little patience for “slow” movies. The language isn’t Shakespearean (i.e. incomprehensible to 85% of American moviegoers), the accents are clear and British (even the “French” people; some accuracy must be sacrificed for clarity and plot progression and this raises no complaint from me), and the plot isn’t very complicated (there are a number of characters, but a second viewing clears up any confusion, or simply paying close attention). However, for those who disdain and avoid historical movies that don’t have epic battles (Braveheart, Gladiator, et al), it may not be your cup of tea. There is no language, no sex (that is, no nudity or even people rolling around in the hay), and no violence (that is, no blood and gore; people get their heads cut off, but you don’t see much), so it’s not going to have the immediate appeal that most studios seem to feel are necessary to capture an audience’s attention. If you can look past these “deficiencies” then a wonderful movie experience awaits you in The Scarlet Pimpernel.
8 out of 10.
Friday, January 16, 2009
Golf Course Review: River Oaks
At first glance, the River Oaks golf course doesn’t look like much. In fact, while looking for a job a couple years ago, I had been going round to many courses in the area, trying to score jobs in pro shops and thus win free golf. I waltzed into the pro shop, a shabby, cigarette-fumed basement, and my first thought was, What a dump. I had been rejected by every other course I went to without a hint of opportunity. Half of me urged retreat, but I’d driven this far, and thought I might as well leave a resume. Imagine my surprise when the proprietor turned out to be a pleasant fellow who chatted amiably and seemed genuinely disappointed that he couldn’t hire me. It would turn out to be the nearest I came to landing a job at a golf course that summer, and taught me a valuable lesson in humility and not judging things too harshly.
In a queer twist of fate, my uncle bought a membership in that course, since it’s just down the road from his school, and thus he golfs there several times a week, even if it’s only a couple of holes. Me being the only unencumbered golf nut in the area made it inevitable that I would end up golfing there with him a handful of times per month, to the point that both my uncle and the new pro shop manager, an old friend of his, constantly hound me to buy a membership and thus save money. It has become my “home course” of sorts, and I have an intimate knowledge of its twists and turns.
Set in the heart of a lower income suburb, it remains an unusual city course. Most courses in cities are relatively straight forward, featuring holes running parallel to each other, moderate hills and subtle dingles providing opportunities for working on the short game and approaches, with only orderly rows of trees offering hazards for drives and long shots. River Oaks, however, reminds me of the country courses I cut my teeth on in northeast Missouri. The rough isn’t just higher grass; sometimes there’s no grass, and sometimes the weeds are thigh-high. Elevation changes are many, and the course features at least five blind approaches to the green. The fairways, redone two years ago, are slowly filling in with fresh zoysia, yet still fail to guarantee a clean shot every time. The greens, though vastly improved from their sorry state during the worst times, are patchy and inconsistent in any time other than the height of the season, July through mid-August. The trees are gnarled and thick; thickets abound and deer are not uncommon. The sparse bunkers are improving, but still are a mix between sand and dirt, making any sand shot an iffy proposition.
Layout-wise, it’s a long and complicated course that doesn’t make sense right away. Nestled uneasily amid houses, the back nine especially exacerbates matters with houses lining each side of the hole, sometimes a mere twenty yards from the fairway. I’ve scrambled more than a few times to avoid hitting houses with errant shots, not always successfully. Between holes 11 and 12 is a good quarter-mile stretch, up a hill and across two neighborhood roads, a long arduous walk if you’re toting your clubs on a muggy summer’s day.
The course changed owners a few years ago, and the improvements are many. The club house, so smoky and noxious five years ago, is clean and cozy, with a snack bar and a few items in the pro shop. Perhaps one of the greatest advantages to River Oaks is the upstairs of the building, a small workout center with treadmills, nautilus equipment, stairmasters, and the like. Membership in the course includes acess to the fitness center, so one gets value for their money year-round. On the course, there are drinking stations regularly available for the sweltering humidity that suctions moisture out of you during the summer. The fairways and greens are steadily improving in quality, and I have no doubt that in a few years it will be a fine course. A new feature this last year was GPS devices on the carts, adding more precision to yardage calculations. Greens fees are cheap, around $15-$25 to walk, with an additional $15 for a cart (non-member prices). And at $30 per month, membership is very reasonable.
Still, one might say, the litany of deficiencies mentioned earlier might be enough to persuade the discerning golfer to avoid River Oaks. And there are a few areas for improvement. The back nine is more spotty as far as drinking jugs go with only one. The yardage markers are sometimes difficult to see; the cart paths are painted, but without stakes or trees to mark 150, walkers on the other side of the fairways are at a disadvantage. As a fairly low-budget course in a low-income area of town, at times there can be a lack of proper etiquette. I recall one time when two teenage girls walked across one hole, even crossing the green while we were putting! My uncle is a jovial and pious man, but even he berated them strongly for a lack of manners. Sometimes golfers will jump in ahead of others midway through the nine, starting on the twelfth hole. All the pitfalls and disadvantages of public courses butt up against urban areas are potentials.
Overall, however, from a pure golfer’s perspective, the course is very serviceable. Rapid changes in elevation challenge the golfer’s distance and accuracy, as do holes lined with splayed trees on either side, with a chaser of a fifty-foot drop just past the trees on one side. The holes bend left and right, offering no great advantage to the left-handed or right-handed player over the other. Even a seemingly easy hole, like #5, which is a short par four at around 280 yards, can prove problematic as the straight-ahead fairway is lined with overhanging trees protecting a river to the right. Or #13, a short par-three over a creek, with a domed green, sand and OB to the right, and a couple of tall trees to the left. There are a few breathers thrown in, and a confident and able player can score low with good control and discipline, but compared to some other courses in the Kansas City area, River Oaks is deceptively difficult, and a shabby exterior protects a hidden gem.
In a queer twist of fate, my uncle bought a membership in that course, since it’s just down the road from his school, and thus he golfs there several times a week, even if it’s only a couple of holes. Me being the only unencumbered golf nut in the area made it inevitable that I would end up golfing there with him a handful of times per month, to the point that both my uncle and the new pro shop manager, an old friend of his, constantly hound me to buy a membership and thus save money. It has become my “home course” of sorts, and I have an intimate knowledge of its twists and turns.
Set in the heart of a lower income suburb, it remains an unusual city course. Most courses in cities are relatively straight forward, featuring holes running parallel to each other, moderate hills and subtle dingles providing opportunities for working on the short game and approaches, with only orderly rows of trees offering hazards for drives and long shots. River Oaks, however, reminds me of the country courses I cut my teeth on in northeast Missouri. The rough isn’t just higher grass; sometimes there’s no grass, and sometimes the weeds are thigh-high. Elevation changes are many, and the course features at least five blind approaches to the green. The fairways, redone two years ago, are slowly filling in with fresh zoysia, yet still fail to guarantee a clean shot every time. The greens, though vastly improved from their sorry state during the worst times, are patchy and inconsistent in any time other than the height of the season, July through mid-August. The trees are gnarled and thick; thickets abound and deer are not uncommon. The sparse bunkers are improving, but still are a mix between sand and dirt, making any sand shot an iffy proposition.
Layout-wise, it’s a long and complicated course that doesn’t make sense right away. Nestled uneasily amid houses, the back nine especially exacerbates matters with houses lining each side of the hole, sometimes a mere twenty yards from the fairway. I’ve scrambled more than a few times to avoid hitting houses with errant shots, not always successfully. Between holes 11 and 12 is a good quarter-mile stretch, up a hill and across two neighborhood roads, a long arduous walk if you’re toting your clubs on a muggy summer’s day.
The course changed owners a few years ago, and the improvements are many. The club house, so smoky and noxious five years ago, is clean and cozy, with a snack bar and a few items in the pro shop. Perhaps one of the greatest advantages to River Oaks is the upstairs of the building, a small workout center with treadmills, nautilus equipment, stairmasters, and the like. Membership in the course includes acess to the fitness center, so one gets value for their money year-round. On the course, there are drinking stations regularly available for the sweltering humidity that suctions moisture out of you during the summer. The fairways and greens are steadily improving in quality, and I have no doubt that in a few years it will be a fine course. A new feature this last year was GPS devices on the carts, adding more precision to yardage calculations. Greens fees are cheap, around $15-$25 to walk, with an additional $15 for a cart (non-member prices). And at $30 per month, membership is very reasonable.
Still, one might say, the litany of deficiencies mentioned earlier might be enough to persuade the discerning golfer to avoid River Oaks. And there are a few areas for improvement. The back nine is more spotty as far as drinking jugs go with only one. The yardage markers are sometimes difficult to see; the cart paths are painted, but without stakes or trees to mark 150, walkers on the other side of the fairways are at a disadvantage. As a fairly low-budget course in a low-income area of town, at times there can be a lack of proper etiquette. I recall one time when two teenage girls walked across one hole, even crossing the green while we were putting! My uncle is a jovial and pious man, but even he berated them strongly for a lack of manners. Sometimes golfers will jump in ahead of others midway through the nine, starting on the twelfth hole. All the pitfalls and disadvantages of public courses butt up against urban areas are potentials.
Overall, however, from a pure golfer’s perspective, the course is very serviceable. Rapid changes in elevation challenge the golfer’s distance and accuracy, as do holes lined with splayed trees on either side, with a chaser of a fifty-foot drop just past the trees on one side. The holes bend left and right, offering no great advantage to the left-handed or right-handed player over the other. Even a seemingly easy hole, like #5, which is a short par four at around 280 yards, can prove problematic as the straight-ahead fairway is lined with overhanging trees protecting a river to the right. Or #13, a short par-three over a creek, with a domed green, sand and OB to the right, and a couple of tall trees to the left. There are a few breathers thrown in, and a confident and able player can score low with good control and discipline, but compared to some other courses in the Kansas City area, River Oaks is deceptively difficult, and a shabby exterior protects a hidden gem.
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Disquieting Reflections on a Job Hunt
It's strange how you can get used to things. Like the sinking feeling in my stomach. It's been there at some measure for the last four months, as I watch my savings dwindle and the job applications futilely flit about the Internet. I don't have a job yet. And it's been so long that I sometimes wonder whether I'll be able to sit in an office cubicle for 8 hours a day, staring at a computer screen. I've done it in the past, and I daresay that I can get used to it again if need be.
I dread being bored. It's a selfish and dangerous thought to harbor, I know, especially when I have little professional appeal. I can't afford to be picky in the positions I seek. Yet I ponder working data entry positions and shudder; I recall my last job, moving lines to match an aerial photo beneath them and I cringe. I contemplate a dull repetitive workweek and I want to...what? I don't know. How would I avoid this? Start my own business? That's a lot of work, and dull work, like finances and whatnot. Plus, I'm not endowed with the entrepreneurial spirit like some. I could see myself participating in someone else's effort, to help them and work with them, but to spearhead it myself? Not so much. No, really, the one place where work didn't feel onerous was while I was teaching during grad school. The work was hard, but it changed constantly. That is, the material I read to prepare changed, the students' writing changed (at least, the subjects did; I'm not sanguine about the efficiency and competency). I went to class each time with the expectation of surprise, of uncertainty. I could probably predict what my students would say, how many would stare blearily at me instead of participating, how many would whine or glare when assignments handed out. But there was always the chance, a slim hope, that I would be startled by some brilliant or original observation, a chance gleam of excitement in a student's eyes as they realized a new concept in their mind, a different way of looking at things. And when reading students' essays, there remained the possibility that I would be jolted out of complacency by a clever turn of phrase or thoughtful bit of analysis. And looking back on semesters, I could mentally chart the progress of my students, both in their writing and in their participation, their confidence in the classroom. It was pleasant to ruminate on. And even the prospect of devising new syllabus, choosing new material to implement, allowed me the process of creation, of weighing the journals with essays, the subjects with importance, the timeline with time. And all this was with composition courses. I don't even like composition. What would it be like to teach something I really like? Like Shakespeare? Or Tolkien? Or the Bible? Or Borges? Or Poe? Or the Romantics? What would that be like?
I dread being bored. It's a selfish and dangerous thought to harbor, I know, especially when I have little professional appeal. I can't afford to be picky in the positions I seek. Yet I ponder working data entry positions and shudder; I recall my last job, moving lines to match an aerial photo beneath them and I cringe. I contemplate a dull repetitive workweek and I want to...what? I don't know. How would I avoid this? Start my own business? That's a lot of work, and dull work, like finances and whatnot. Plus, I'm not endowed with the entrepreneurial spirit like some. I could see myself participating in someone else's effort, to help them and work with them, but to spearhead it myself? Not so much. No, really, the one place where work didn't feel onerous was while I was teaching during grad school. The work was hard, but it changed constantly. That is, the material I read to prepare changed, the students' writing changed (at least, the subjects did; I'm not sanguine about the efficiency and competency). I went to class each time with the expectation of surprise, of uncertainty. I could probably predict what my students would say, how many would stare blearily at me instead of participating, how many would whine or glare when assignments handed out. But there was always the chance, a slim hope, that I would be startled by some brilliant or original observation, a chance gleam of excitement in a student's eyes as they realized a new concept in their mind, a different way of looking at things. And when reading students' essays, there remained the possibility that I would be jolted out of complacency by a clever turn of phrase or thoughtful bit of analysis. And looking back on semesters, I could mentally chart the progress of my students, both in their writing and in their participation, their confidence in the classroom. It was pleasant to ruminate on. And even the prospect of devising new syllabus, choosing new material to implement, allowed me the process of creation, of weighing the journals with essays, the subjects with importance, the timeline with time. And all this was with composition courses. I don't even like composition. What would it be like to teach something I really like? Like Shakespeare? Or Tolkien? Or the Bible? Or Borges? Or Poe? Or the Romantics? What would that be like?
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