A Snapshot Of The Day-To-Day
The music alarm went off at 8:15, and I stumbled over to a window to check the sky. It's not that I can actually see the weather pattern over Wisconsin from my apartment, but at least I get a read on what's generally in store for the day. The weather is my Janus: We need the rain to maintain the lushness of the greenery, but we take in considerably less money on rainy days. Today looked mostly sunny, an estimation verified by a quick check of the radar on Weather.com, to see if there were any patterns moving in from the west that might effect the afternoon. Thankfully, after a string of fog and rain, today's outlook gave every indication of a hot and sunny day. I thought for a second what that might mean to course traffic and beer sales then I jumped back into bed. Usually I go back to sleep for a little bit, but today I read because I've really gotten into this book lately.
At 9:15, the sounds of WGN blared from my secondary alarm, and from them I heard that traffic was beginning to free up. I reached over and hit snooze. Incidentally, the biggest reason for my radio alarm being tuned to WGN in the mornings is the level to which I despise the show hosts at that time -- Judy and Kathy. They're good for nothing but politcally-slanted, underinformed comments about every subject under the sun. Their call-ins likewise tend to be complete air-heads who've become soft in the brain after years of living in the suburbs and coming to believe that the suburban lifestyle is somehow remotely similar to the way the rest of the world operates. Their solution to the Middle East: Pretend like those problems don't exist and run. Their solution to education: Let's give all the teachers all the money they want. Their solution to gas prices: Everyone go out and buy a Prius. Their solution to corruption: Indict all the politicians. The foul and insipid crappiness of their material made me spring out of bed after snooze time expired, that being the only purpose of that garbage show so far as I can tell.
I plopped down and watched t.v. for a while because I'm still getting used to my new Dish Network set-up. I programmed my remote, flipped around a bit, and got bored. I took a shower, dressed, read some news on the web, and blared Panic. I've been feeling a little sluggish lately, so I decided that I was going to take a long walk before leaving for the course. I went out to my car and deposited everything I didn't need for my walk (book, wallet, house keys, phone), went to Starbucks, and wandered. It was extremely hot in the sun, but the warmth felt good and I stretched out my legs a little. I walked up the Golf Coast, turned around at the Latin School, and came back home. I'd completely sweated through my shirt, but that's a gaffe I can afford when my ultimate destination is a place where guys go to get drunk and play sports. I got into my car and drove more or less unimpeded by traffic and away from the city.
About twenty minutes from the course, I realized not only that I should have peed before I left, but also that I'd cleaned out my car out the night before, so not a single empty Gatorade or water bottle was to be had. All I could do was haul ass as best I could and grab hold of myself, and grab and haul I did. When I finally pulled up to the clubhouse, I broke into a full sprint the second the car came to a halt. One of the regulars tried to say something to me as I ran past him, but I shouted over my shoulder, "Gotta pee, Dan -- hold on!" (It's not too surprising that he acted weird toward me the rest of the day, but I had to pee so damn bad!) Juan said something too, but I cut him off with a, "Hold on!" I peed, and it was wonderful. (Quoth Eric Cartman, "You know that feeling after you take a big crap? Awesome.") I came out of the bathroom to find Juan talking to a bunch of Mexican guys. They work at a private course nearby and their boss hooks us up with deals on excess chemicals at the end of the summer, so we have a good relationship with them. I walked back out to the car and filled up my gas tank. If work didn't provide me with gas, I would go broke -- I have to fill up every two days or so. As my car was filling up, I decided that it was time to buy a case for all the loose CDs floating around in back seat, there lest my iPod runs out of batteries and it's a slow sports talk radio day. I went back and told Juan I was headed to OfficeMax.
Suburban Wisconsin looks like most other places, but the people are rarely ever good looking. I know I sound like a dick saying that, but it's rare that I'm ever blown away by a really cute girl in southeastern Wisconsin. I think this because all of the hot girls move to Chicago, Milwaukee, or Madison, leaving their hometowns with nothing but chronically chunky or otherwise physically unappealing swill. I bought more of my favorite scorekeeping pencils (the mechanical PaperMate Sharpwriter -- a highly reliable, durable writing utensil) and a CD case. I took my loot back to the course, cursing myself for forgetting batteries for my iPod speakers.
The clubhouse is what it is: A place to buy beer and golf. Nearly everyone who comes in is smoking something, be it cigar, pipe or cigarette. We have the best hot dogs in the world, or so people tell me. I am not a fan of hot dogs, but you damn well better believe I tell everyone in there that they're delicious and to get one. Some of the people like me; others do not. To some I'm the cheerful owner, a cool guy who runs a solid establishment. To others I'm the owner, the greedy authority figure who raised prices (gasp!) fifty-cents across the board before the season started and lives way, way down in the big bad city. Basically, I don't care what they think of me -- actually, it's not like I really care what anyone thinks of me anyway. It's one of my more charming and irritating personality quirks.
Back to the point, I hear a relentless flow of nonsensical commentary all the live long day. The course is nice; the course is crap; the beer is too warm; the beer is too cold; the hot dogs are bad because they're too big; the hot dogs are good because they're so big; the prices are too high; the prices are just right; the carts are slow; the carts are quick; the greens are soft; the greens are fast; the fairways are long; the rough is short; the first nine is the nicest; the second nine is the nicest; the third nine is the nicest. On and on and on it goes, different people constantly spouting their uninformed and flaccid opinions in my direction. I cannot tell you how many cigarettes I light up every day in order to endure the mindless crap comments of the customers, especially when it comes to shit they know we won't ever change or they don't know a damn thing about. Most of them think that I'm just some guy who works there, but when they discover that I'm actually the owner, then they really lay into me about what they think I should do with my business. Sometimes they are just trying to be helpful, but other times they are downright irritating. There is not right way to react to a negative commentary, and everyone is susceptible to breaking down at a certain point. For example, I once heard my grandpa say to a particularly obnoxious customer, "You know what? Just give me your twenty bucks and shut the fuck up!" You better believe the dumb guy did just that, because he knows that if he could find a better bargain somewhere else then he would go there, but he can't and he knows it so he comes to us. That's the contract we have with our customers, whether they realize it or not: We do the very best we can with the little we demand of you, and for that we could give a fuck about your suggestions. Call it stubborn, call it rude, call it what you will. Other courses in the area post six-figure losses; we've been profitable from the day we first opened twenty years ago. Why is this the case? What's the big secret? It's simple really: They approach their courses with the perspective of a golf fan; we view ours as a money-making enterprise. Also, no one in our family plays golf -- for our clan, golf is and always will be work.
Our Thursday leagues love to drink late into the night which suits me fine, as I am not a morning person by any stretch of the imagination. On a usual Thursday after 3 in the afternoon, we serve about 90 league guys and another 30 walk-ups, all of whom want to play fast while getting hammered. So, in addition to working the register and directing the flow of tee offs (we have a starter only for weekends), I also have to bag a ton of beers. I have the process down to a science: Beers from the cooler, bag from under the counter, three scoops from the ice machine, baggie tie from the bucket, slide the bag across the counter, grab the money, give them their change, wish them well on their round. Juan is much better at managing tee times and dictating to walk-ups which course they ought to play, so I usually handle beer responsibilities.
Today, however, Juan decided that he needed to cut one of the fairways on the middle nine. I yelled at him that he's got to get the new fairways guy up to par, that I need him in there with me because he knows the league guys better than I do, and that we don't have all fucking summer to teach this guy how to cut 3,000 yards in 10 hours. He shrugged and said, "Patricio, there's nothing I can do about it," and walked out, leaving me to mind the registers with Raoul. Raoul is a very hard-working and likeable guy, but his command of English is extremely limited. Peculiarly, Raoul is nearly as disinterested in playing golf as I am, so he is not very good at managing walk-up customers or directing the flow of traffic. He always says, "You go back nine or front nine, it don't matter," even if there are forty carts lined up at each tee box and the middle nine is completely empty. Raoul knows this so he went over over the beer register, I took over starter and cashier responsibilities, and Juan went out to finish some lazy guy's job while the guy went out golfing (I've already fired him once but Juan hired him back -- it's a long story involving family ties back in the old country which I do not understand). During the course of the afternoon, one of the walk-ups had the balls to bitch about the slowness of play even though I warned him before he went out that leagues were on all three courses. Juan came back to the clubhouse in the nick of time and straightened the guy out by sending him onto a different course, and the crisis was averted. Later, one of the regulars asked me, "You're always so serious. Why don't you ever smile?" I responded, "Are you a six-foot blonde with big boobs?" He laughed; I smiled.
Once the leagues were off on their merry way, the afternoon pretty much ground to a halt. Raoul went out with the beer cart, and Juan disappeared again to who knows where. I read my book, poked around the web for a couple of papers about the relationship between economics and physics, scanned my email, and won a couple of races in Gran Turismo 3 on my PS2 (the Polyphony F1 cars -- bellissima!). I flipped on the television and flipped it right off again, looking over at the newly-delivered DirectTV boxes behind the counter and wishing the guy could have installed them this morning instead of tomorrow afternoon. I ate some Doritos and stared out the window. Juan came in laughing and asked me how the rush went. I told him to go screw himself. He laughed his crooked little laugh and counted out the register. His afternoon disappearing act is without a doubt marginally tied to his recent insistence on busting my balls, a campaign of attrition launched because he's pissed that I took Tuesday off (it was raining cats and dogs all day, and fuck him anyway). We loaded the beer and soda coolers, cleaned up the patio, waited for the leagues to finish up, pulled the carts in for the night, and locked up. I stopped at the Steak 'n' Shake in Gurnee at about 10, ate a burger and read in my car, listened to Jay Hood on The Score during the ride home, and arrived back at my building at about 11.
That is pretty typical of my average day, with many of the better details left out. For those you will have to wait for the full "The Day-To-Day" which continues to grow to enormous, novella-length proportions. Regardless, based just on this snapshot, I am sure that your day was nothing at all like mine, and I absolutely love that about my life.
At 9:15, the sounds of WGN blared from my secondary alarm, and from them I heard that traffic was beginning to free up. I reached over and hit snooze. Incidentally, the biggest reason for my radio alarm being tuned to WGN in the mornings is the level to which I despise the show hosts at that time -- Judy and Kathy. They're good for nothing but politcally-slanted, underinformed comments about every subject under the sun. Their call-ins likewise tend to be complete air-heads who've become soft in the brain after years of living in the suburbs and coming to believe that the suburban lifestyle is somehow remotely similar to the way the rest of the world operates. Their solution to the Middle East: Pretend like those problems don't exist and run. Their solution to education: Let's give all the teachers all the money they want. Their solution to gas prices: Everyone go out and buy a Prius. Their solution to corruption: Indict all the politicians. The foul and insipid crappiness of their material made me spring out of bed after snooze time expired, that being the only purpose of that garbage show so far as I can tell.
I plopped down and watched t.v. for a while because I'm still getting used to my new Dish Network set-up. I programmed my remote, flipped around a bit, and got bored. I took a shower, dressed, read some news on the web, and blared Panic. I've been feeling a little sluggish lately, so I decided that I was going to take a long walk before leaving for the course. I went out to my car and deposited everything I didn't need for my walk (book, wallet, house keys, phone), went to Starbucks, and wandered. It was extremely hot in the sun, but the warmth felt good and I stretched out my legs a little. I walked up the Golf Coast, turned around at the Latin School, and came back home. I'd completely sweated through my shirt, but that's a gaffe I can afford when my ultimate destination is a place where guys go to get drunk and play sports. I got into my car and drove more or less unimpeded by traffic and away from the city.
About twenty minutes from the course, I realized not only that I should have peed before I left, but also that I'd cleaned out my car out the night before, so not a single empty Gatorade or water bottle was to be had. All I could do was haul ass as best I could and grab hold of myself, and grab and haul I did. When I finally pulled up to the clubhouse, I broke into a full sprint the second the car came to a halt. One of the regulars tried to say something to me as I ran past him, but I shouted over my shoulder, "Gotta pee, Dan -- hold on!" (It's not too surprising that he acted weird toward me the rest of the day, but I had to pee so damn bad!) Juan said something too, but I cut him off with a, "Hold on!" I peed, and it was wonderful. (Quoth Eric Cartman, "You know that feeling after you take a big crap? Awesome.") I came out of the bathroom to find Juan talking to a bunch of Mexican guys. They work at a private course nearby and their boss hooks us up with deals on excess chemicals at the end of the summer, so we have a good relationship with them. I walked back out to the car and filled up my gas tank. If work didn't provide me with gas, I would go broke -- I have to fill up every two days or so. As my car was filling up, I decided that it was time to buy a case for all the loose CDs floating around in back seat, there lest my iPod runs out of batteries and it's a slow sports talk radio day. I went back and told Juan I was headed to OfficeMax.
Suburban Wisconsin looks like most other places, but the people are rarely ever good looking. I know I sound like a dick saying that, but it's rare that I'm ever blown away by a really cute girl in southeastern Wisconsin. I think this because all of the hot girls move to Chicago, Milwaukee, or Madison, leaving their hometowns with nothing but chronically chunky or otherwise physically unappealing swill. I bought more of my favorite scorekeeping pencils (the mechanical PaperMate Sharpwriter -- a highly reliable, durable writing utensil) and a CD case. I took my loot back to the course, cursing myself for forgetting batteries for my iPod speakers.
The clubhouse is what it is: A place to buy beer and golf. Nearly everyone who comes in is smoking something, be it cigar, pipe or cigarette. We have the best hot dogs in the world, or so people tell me. I am not a fan of hot dogs, but you damn well better believe I tell everyone in there that they're delicious and to get one. Some of the people like me; others do not. To some I'm the cheerful owner, a cool guy who runs a solid establishment. To others I'm the owner, the greedy authority figure who raised prices (gasp!) fifty-cents across the board before the season started and lives way, way down in the big bad city. Basically, I don't care what they think of me -- actually, it's not like I really care what anyone thinks of me anyway. It's one of my more charming and irritating personality quirks.
Back to the point, I hear a relentless flow of nonsensical commentary all the live long day. The course is nice; the course is crap; the beer is too warm; the beer is too cold; the hot dogs are bad because they're too big; the hot dogs are good because they're so big; the prices are too high; the prices are just right; the carts are slow; the carts are quick; the greens are soft; the greens are fast; the fairways are long; the rough is short; the first nine is the nicest; the second nine is the nicest; the third nine is the nicest. On and on and on it goes, different people constantly spouting their uninformed and flaccid opinions in my direction. I cannot tell you how many cigarettes I light up every day in order to endure the mindless crap comments of the customers, especially when it comes to shit they know we won't ever change or they don't know a damn thing about. Most of them think that I'm just some guy who works there, but when they discover that I'm actually the owner, then they really lay into me about what they think I should do with my business. Sometimes they are just trying to be helpful, but other times they are downright irritating. There is not right way to react to a negative commentary, and everyone is susceptible to breaking down at a certain point. For example, I once heard my grandpa say to a particularly obnoxious customer, "You know what? Just give me your twenty bucks and shut the fuck up!" You better believe the dumb guy did just that, because he knows that if he could find a better bargain somewhere else then he would go there, but he can't and he knows it so he comes to us. That's the contract we have with our customers, whether they realize it or not: We do the very best we can with the little we demand of you, and for that we could give a fuck about your suggestions. Call it stubborn, call it rude, call it what you will. Other courses in the area post six-figure losses; we've been profitable from the day we first opened twenty years ago. Why is this the case? What's the big secret? It's simple really: They approach their courses with the perspective of a golf fan; we view ours as a money-making enterprise. Also, no one in our family plays golf -- for our clan, golf is and always will be work.
Our Thursday leagues love to drink late into the night which suits me fine, as I am not a morning person by any stretch of the imagination. On a usual Thursday after 3 in the afternoon, we serve about 90 league guys and another 30 walk-ups, all of whom want to play fast while getting hammered. So, in addition to working the register and directing the flow of tee offs (we have a starter only for weekends), I also have to bag a ton of beers. I have the process down to a science: Beers from the cooler, bag from under the counter, three scoops from the ice machine, baggie tie from the bucket, slide the bag across the counter, grab the money, give them their change, wish them well on their round. Juan is much better at managing tee times and dictating to walk-ups which course they ought to play, so I usually handle beer responsibilities.
Today, however, Juan decided that he needed to cut one of the fairways on the middle nine. I yelled at him that he's got to get the new fairways guy up to par, that I need him in there with me because he knows the league guys better than I do, and that we don't have all fucking summer to teach this guy how to cut 3,000 yards in 10 hours. He shrugged and said, "Patricio, there's nothing I can do about it," and walked out, leaving me to mind the registers with Raoul. Raoul is a very hard-working and likeable guy, but his command of English is extremely limited. Peculiarly, Raoul is nearly as disinterested in playing golf as I am, so he is not very good at managing walk-up customers or directing the flow of traffic. He always says, "You go back nine or front nine, it don't matter," even if there are forty carts lined up at each tee box and the middle nine is completely empty. Raoul knows this so he went over over the beer register, I took over starter and cashier responsibilities, and Juan went out to finish some lazy guy's job while the guy went out golfing (I've already fired him once but Juan hired him back -- it's a long story involving family ties back in the old country which I do not understand). During the course of the afternoon, one of the walk-ups had the balls to bitch about the slowness of play even though I warned him before he went out that leagues were on all three courses. Juan came back to the clubhouse in the nick of time and straightened the guy out by sending him onto a different course, and the crisis was averted. Later, one of the regulars asked me, "You're always so serious. Why don't you ever smile?" I responded, "Are you a six-foot blonde with big boobs?" He laughed; I smiled.
Once the leagues were off on their merry way, the afternoon pretty much ground to a halt. Raoul went out with the beer cart, and Juan disappeared again to who knows where. I read my book, poked around the web for a couple of papers about the relationship between economics and physics, scanned my email, and won a couple of races in Gran Turismo 3 on my PS2 (the Polyphony F1 cars -- bellissima!). I flipped on the television and flipped it right off again, looking over at the newly-delivered DirectTV boxes behind the counter and wishing the guy could have installed them this morning instead of tomorrow afternoon. I ate some Doritos and stared out the window. Juan came in laughing and asked me how the rush went. I told him to go screw himself. He laughed his crooked little laugh and counted out the register. His afternoon disappearing act is without a doubt marginally tied to his recent insistence on busting my balls, a campaign of attrition launched because he's pissed that I took Tuesday off (it was raining cats and dogs all day, and fuck him anyway). We loaded the beer and soda coolers, cleaned up the patio, waited for the leagues to finish up, pulled the carts in for the night, and locked up. I stopped at the Steak 'n' Shake in Gurnee at about 10, ate a burger and read in my car, listened to Jay Hood on The Score during the ride home, and arrived back at my building at about 11.
That is pretty typical of my average day, with many of the better details left out. For those you will have to wait for the full "The Day-To-Day" which continues to grow to enormous, novella-length proportions. Regardless, based just on this snapshot, I am sure that your day was nothing at all like mine, and I absolutely love that about my life.
posted by Pat at 10:50 PM
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