:: Burgers and bad golf ::

As I wrap up, sadly, my last day of vacation after two weeks off, I thought I'd wrap things up with a couple notes.

On Thursday, T.O. and I golfed at Peace Portal - a particularly nice course that I'd never played before. And, as I have been all summer, I was determined to break 100 even if the course was a) new to me, and b) particularly difficult.

You might have guessed by now that it did not happen. That would be correct. But while I only shot 106 - and I was at 80 after 13, but choked hard down the stretch - TO also did not have his 'A' game. (He finished at 91).

It was so bad, in fact, that the ever-classy T.O. described our game thusly after just a few holes:

"Fuck, this is just an abortion out here."

On an unrelated note, you may recall from the previous Vegas-themed post, that Christene's life was not complete until the moment she entered our bathroom at the Flamingo and there was a TV in it.

I had a similar experience last night, at Christene's family's annual neighbourhood block party, although it was not bathroom-related.

You see, Christene's neighbour across the street is an executive chef-type person at White Spot - she works with that big bald dude from the commercials. So, for the BBQ, she brought a whole ton of White Spot burgers to cook up - complete with the buns, pickles and of course, the delicious Triple-O sauce. So, when it was time to eat, I walked over to the table and there was literally an unlimited supply of triple-O burgers.

I almost had a heart attack just looking at it because, as some of you may know, I freaking love White Spot burgers.

It was glorious.

In fact, after eating my fair share of them last night, I even managed to snag myself a leftover one today, and am, as we speak, eating it for breakfast.

Yes, I know exactly what time it is. Don't judge me, assholes - I'm still on vacation.

:: Surviving the round ::

"You prick! I hope you lose 53 balls (ha!), hit every water hazard and bunker on the course, and get kicked off the course for holding everybody up and generally being the worst golfer in history." - Kelsey's message to me yesterday, after my Facebook status bragged that I would be golfing while everyone else was working.

When I was in high school, I had a friend, let's call him Mike (because that was his name) who loved to tell stories. And by stories, I mean blatant fucking lies. Now, I've never begrudged a person for embellishing a good story ever-so-slightly - God knows I've been known to tell a good drawn-out story now and then - but Mike's fibs were so ridiculous they were beyond believable. In fact, looking back on it now, I wonder why none of us called him on his bullshit, but that's besides the point I guess.

One of my favourite Mike stories included the time he was a pitcher in a Little League game and accidently hit the batter in face, and his pitch was so incredibly fast that the ball stuck in the kid's forehead and when they took it out, you could basically see his brain.

I'm not even making this up - this was the story told by a 15 or 16 year old.

Then there was the time that he took his 2-wheel drive truck off-roading, smashed the shit out of all his fog lights and punctured a tire, then tried to tell ICBC that somebody had vandalized his truck in the school parking lot. The insurance adjustor took one look at his truck, saw the undercarriage caked with mud (which he stupidly didn't think to clean off), and told Mike to get the fuck out, and never try pulling that shit again or he'd be charged with attempted insurance fraud. To this day, he'll never admit the truth.

However, for the purposes of this post - which eventually will be about golf, I promise - my all-time favourite Mikeism was his tale about a round of golf he once played. He told us once that, when he was 13 or 14, he was golfing on a PGA course, and on a Par-3 he got a hole-in-one.

Now, consider so far the holes in this story:

- Mike was just as bad at golf as we were, if not worse. The odds of him hitting a hole-in-one on any course, ever, in the history of time, were about 53,000:1.

- He had never travelled anywhere, and with no local course being of the PGA variety, the mere idea that he set foot on a pro golf course was impossible.

However, despite these pretty significant problems with his story, Mike proceeded to dig himself into an ever bigger lie when he described how it happened. To hear him tell it, his tee shot made it just to the side of the green, then it clanged off the clubhouse (or some other on-course building), then hit an old man who was doing some maintenance (seriously), and then bounced off the man and into the cup.

So...yeah. That is my favourite golf story ever. Me and some friends from high school still laugh about it to this day, about 12 years after its first telling.

And now, the point of this story (I told you earlier I tend to ramble, what the hell did you expect?): Yesterday afternoon, Bobby and I golfed a round at Newlands that, at times, was nearly on par (pun intended) with Mike's story.

Well, in truth it's not really very close at all, but it was still the craziest round I've golfed in a couple years, and I wanted to tell you about it. (But I also wanted to write about my old friend Mike's stupid stories, so I had to find a way to combine them).

We teed off at 11:52 a.m., and the first tee box is oddly situated - it's elevated, and tucked right between the restaurant and the pro shop. I teed off first, and expected to hit a mighty slice (it's just what I do). However, no slice I've ever shot topped this one - after making contact with the ball, it did not travel the usual 85-100 yards before fading right. Instead, it went right immediately after contact, and smashed into the pro shop window.

(editor's note: Hi, I'm the next Tiger Woods. Nice to meet you)

Slightly embarrassed, I took a mulligan and tried again. Clang. Once more, off the pro shop, and into the garden. Lost ball #2. Now I was pissed off. So I teed off one more time, and this time successfuly got the ball 15 yards out - thus missing the pro shop hat trick - before it curved hard right and nearly killed some people on the putting green.

Now really mad, I just decided to hit from somewhere up the fairway so I could get on with things. So, we continued on our way up the fairway, and after Bobby rattled a few shots off some trees, we were both equally rattled and angry.

"Let's just get this fucking hole over with," we said.

So we hopped into the cart, planning to finish the hole asap. I stepped on the gas.

Nothing.

Put it in reverse. Nothing.

The fucking cart was dead.

So, we left our stuff there, on the edge of the first fairway, and marched back to the pro shop to explain what happened and get another cart. Soon, we had a working cart, went back to our old cart and transferred all our gear over. However, as we got set to continue, we realized that there were about 4 different groups on the par-5 hole, including a pair of old guys right where we were.

So we waited. And the people behind us waited. And the people on the tee waited too. We (or, to be specific, the course's broken cart) single-handedly delayed a whole ton of people before even finishing the first of 18 holes.

We rushed through the second hole, a short par-3, and the third was a rush job too. I was so rushed and rattled, in fact, that I lost another couple balls with my terrible slice. It was at this point thatI realized my summer goal of breaking 100 was not to be reached today. If I could break 115 that would be a small miracle.

By the fourth hole, we started calming down, and ended up joining up with the two old dudes in front of us - both of whom were awful golfers too, and one of the guys looked like John Madden's identical twin, which was actually pretty kick-ass.

Anyways, the next 15 holes went OK, although I eventually lost my eighth and final ball and had to borrow a couple from Bobby (plus I found a couple, which helped). In fact, I even had a couple of birdie putts (which I obviously missed) and I re-learned how to hit my three-wood from the fairway, which was another bonus.

But my main source of enjoyment was watching John Madden golf. I already mentioned his age - probably late 60s or early 70s - and because of this, he was certainly not the strongest guy, and his tee shots were pretty short, although usually straight. His mid-range game wasn't too bad either, but what was awesome was his putting.

It was absolutely terrible. He assumed every putt - no matter the green, no matter the distance - had a break on it, and he'd play it as such. He pushed every single putt at least a foot wide, sometimes much more.

And then he'd swear and piss and moan and complain about the course.

"This fucking course is a joke. Where's the break!? We're on a hill for crissakes!"

"I'm never making the mistake of coming here ever again. This is ridiculous."

I'd guess from these outbursts that he was either a) losing his marbles in his old age, and therefore thought he was much better than he actually was, b) having stroke and therefore not seeing straight, or the most likely, c) He was a pretty good golfer in his younger days, and could not come to grips that his game was getting worse as he aged.

Whatever the case, he was fun to watch. He didn't even putt out on probably 8-10 of the holes. He'd just make his putt from 6-8 feet, miss it by 30 yards or so, swear, pick up his ball and stomp over to his cart, where he'd sit and stew until the rest of us were finished.

And after we finished on the 18th green (well, he finished first because he just picked up his ball and went to the cart), we went over for the customary "Thanks for the round" handshake, and all he grumbled was, "You too. Now let's get the fuck out of here and go to the bar."

And then, the best part - when we added up our scores afterward, I had shot a 102.

Somehow, despite losing seven balls (and taking the penalty strokes that come with them) I had, inexplicably shot the best round of my summer.

102. If I took away the shitty first hole, in which I nearly killed a man on the putting green, I would have fucking done it. When I get back from Vegas, I still have a week's holidays, and I plan on golfing that fucking course until I get to 99 or better.

And if I have to kill a man on the putting green to make it happen, or bounce a hole-in-one off the head of John Madden's grumpy identical twin, I'll do it, so help me God.

:: Financial responsibility ::

Pretty much my whole life, I've been very responsible with my money. Even when I worked only a day or two a week while in high school and college, I still managed to save enough cash to do all the stuff I wanted to do - which was mostly drink and buy video games. As a result of my ability to save, very rarely in my life have I not been able to do something I wanted to do because of money, or lack thereof (within reason, of course. It's not like I could ever afford to jet off to Australia for 6 months, just 'cuz).

And the last few years, responsibility has reared it's ugly head again - the first thing I did with my money was pay off student loans, my car and bought a townhouse. Cristal, hookers and blow it ain't, but that's just me.

Such financial thriftyness would seem to come in handy right about now, because I have an expensive fall coming up - which is usually "save time" after an always-expensive summer. But I'm going to kamloops in 3 weeks to hang out, followed immediately by Vegas a week later. And closer to home, I am in need of purchasing a new mattress/box spring, as well as a new washer/dryer, as mine could explode at a moment's notice.

However, my money concerns were slightly abated last week when I discovered, tucked into my passport, $300 in traveller's cheques from trip to Vegas last April, which I thought I'd redeposited at the bank upon my return, but apparently not. Score.

So, what did I do? Reinvest that cash into my upcoming Vegas trip? Perhaps look into buying some new appliances before my current ones explode in a hail of metal, fire and Bounce sheets? Or hell, maybe live dangerously and just put it back into my savings account?

All good options, for sure. All smart ideas.

So I bought some new golf clubs instead.

:: Wakeboarding, breaking shit, work, golf carts, MeatFest 2006... ::

Well folks, it's back to work for ol' Nick - although not before a) ending my holidays in fine fashion and b) breaking a lot of expensive stuff.

I had two weeks off - which were, quite frankly, up and down. Lots of good times, some really bad, some just boring. But still, it beat the fuck out of being at work.

Some of the highlights were, of course, my annual trip to Seattle with my dad. We watched a pair of outstanding ball games - including a gem of a game from M's Felix Hernandez. We also went to the Experience Music Project and wandered around. If you like music - especially any of the following: Hendrix, grunge, or 80's rock from the Pacific Northwest (Heart, Queensryche, to name a few) then I suggest you go there next time you're in Seattle. Also, if you have any musical ability of any sort, there's a whole room full of gear to mess around on.

Probably the coolest part of the trip though, was leaving the second game with a batting practice home run ball off the bat of Richie Sexson. We were chilling in the lower left field seats with the other ball hawks there, gloves-on-hand, waiting to catch a ball. I, however, wasn't paying attention, and Sexson's ball came straight for my head. It bounced around off gloves before it got to me though, and my dad eventually scooped it up.

After Seattle, I hit the golf course (again) and basically hung out for a few days doing nothing, until I went with some of the family up to Shuswap to my uncle's cabin for a little drinking, boating, wakeboarding, and some drunk golfing.

But not before my computer decided to completely crap out Thursday night. I should also mention this was two days after I shelled out $200 for a new phone. (a completely unecessary new phone, apparently).

Not only did a need to buy a new laptop, which I picked up tonight, I also lost all data on my old computer - it was unsavable. So goodbye 900 Mp3s, and good bye all my pics of my digital camera.

All those drunken memories gone. Or at least only in online form (link on the left, as always).

I was on quite a streak of breaking stuff last week. The phone broke. The computer died. And my "Maintenance Required" light came on in my car. And then when I went to hop in the car bound for the Okanagan my iPod wouldn't turn on either.

For the better part of the week, literally everything I touched broke.

At that rate, I was petrified of jerking off.

But, electronic troubles aside, I had a fantastically great Labour Day weekend. Hung out with my two cousins and their significant others, Dave and Kyle, who are fast becoming a couple of my favourite people to hang out with. All four of 'em really.

On Saturday me, Kyle and Dave cracked beers by 10:30 - much to the chagrin of either their wife or girlfriend. I don't have a wife or girlfriend to speak of sadly (Yet not surprisingly), but lemme tell you, my mom did not look too impressed.

We hit the water around lunchtime and after jetting around the lake for a bit - going from Anglemont to the Narrows, we went wakeboarding. And I suck. A lot. After many attempts I couldn't even get out of the water on the board - although I came close on a few occasions. Compounding the problem - aside from my obvious lack of skill and the fact I have arm strength similar to a 9-year-old girl - was the fact that the lifejacket I was wearing sucked. It fit OK around the middle, but was old and had a few straps missing. As a result, after about 5 seconds of being pulled by the boat, the jacket ended up around my face, basically, which hampered my ability to do just about anything.

As Kyle said, "It looked like you were wearing the lifejacket for a hat out there."

Not pretty folks. Not pretty at all.

The next day my arms hurt like a bitch, yet I joined the crew for a neighbourhood best-ball golf tourney in Salmon Arm with about 40 people from the surrounding cabins. I didn't expect to golf, so I had no clubs, but I rented some from the Salmon Arm Country Club.

There were a number of problems right away.

1) My clubs were too short, I soon realized, which made hitting the ball with any power or accuracy very difficult.

2) Even with good clubs, I'm still not very good.

3) The girl in our group had never golfed, and had no idea how to even hold the club properly.

4) The two other guys in our foursome, Mark and Shawn, were stinking hammered by the 3rd hole.

I'm talking drinking-a-case each, doing 720-spinaramas downhill in golf carts kind of hammered. It was a pretty interesting back nine, I'll tell ya that much.

Somehow, however - we managed to not suck. That is to say, other people sucked far worse than we did. Far, far worse, from what I saw.

We ended up shooting a 4-over-par, good enough for a second place tie. But I gave us the unofficial silver medal because we drank more beer. We were two strokes back of "Team Domination" - the squad of Kyle, Dave (who's a 5 handicap), Tracy and Jen, who have now won the tourney 3 straight years.

Not a bad outing though.

In other weekend news, the first night we were there, Dave told me about his newly founded end-of-summer extravaganza, MeatFest 2006. Such an event will take place next weekend at Dave's Grandpa's summer house on Bowen Island, and the premise is a simple one:

Bring Meat. Lots of it.

We're talking 30-ounce steaks and 3 a.m. rounds of cheeseburgers here, people.

It is also necessary to bring copius amounts of alcohol, but that goes without saying. Golf clubs wouldn't hurt either, because Dave's also hosting a 12-person golf tourney he's dubbed the Bones and Beer Invitational.

I won't know many of the people going aside from the aforementioned four people and, if they decide to come, Chris and Jenna, but it's nonetheless going to be a disgusting show.

The only hitch is the plan is that I now have to work Sunday fucking mornings, courtesy my new fucking work schedule. This will entail peeling myself off a piece of Bowen Island, still drunk as an Irishman, at about 5:30 in the morning and getting on the 6 a.m. ferry back to Horseshoe Bay. From there, I'll likely just hightail it right to the office.

Normally I'd go home first to shower, change and sober up, but it's a Sunday and there's not going to be anybody else in the office.

Besides, even if there was, it's a Sunday and they're gonna have to get used to me in my natural Sunday state.

Hungover as fuck.