Tits and Balls

Last night, while sharing a bed with my friend Garwin, I had an awesome dream. Here it is.

Garwin and I went to the golf course in Northfield, MN, and somehow talked our way into getting some clubs and balls so we could hit up some holes (is that proper golf lingo? I’ve never golfed). On the way over to the first tee, which was way up on a hill, I notice Tony Hayward (the very-much-in-trouble CEO of BP) getting ready to tee off. I start taunting him from below: “Hey Hayward, fuck youuuu!!! You motherfuckin’ ass-lickin’ cocksuckin’ motherfucker!!”

Oh, and by the way, I might as well mention that for this whole dream Garwin is just hangin’ out behind me. And my dad is way ahead of us on the course; he doesn’t actually make an appearance in the dream, but that’s where he is.

So anyway, I’m taunting Hayward who is way up on the hill. He starts to defend himself and his actions, but I just continue giving him shit. The antagonistic back-and-forth starts getting pretty old, so I decide that I’m gonna give a sort of mock apology to have a little fun: “Hayward, I am sooooo sorry. I just lost control of myself, I don’t know what happened.” He immediately accepted my sarcastic remark. So I say “Hey Hayward, do you wanna show me and my buddy how to play golf? We’ve never played.”

Hayward bounds on down to take a look at our equipment. “Did you boys pay for these yourselves?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, these won’t do. They’re far too large for you boys. Let’s go exchange ‘em.”

Hayward takes us back to the front and helps us select proper equipment. Once we’re properly equipped, we go to the first tee. He shows us the right golfing technique, and some strategies for the first hole. The first hole requires hitting the ball through a cracked door to a large log cabin, and aim at a place on the far inside wall labeled “Ma” in Sharpie. Also, inside the log cabin there are walkways that are all turning, like in Hogwarts.

By the time I’m ready to hit the ball, I begin to realize that the cabin is FULL of people who love Hayward. Everyone is going “Hey, Hayward! How’s it going?” to him, and giving him high fives. There’s farmers, little kids, and all sorts of people who just love Hayward in this magical log cabin golf course in Northfield; he’s some sort of local hero.

At this point, I’m starting to feel some real affection for the guy. He was so generous with his golf instruction to us, even after we antagonized him so. And all those people were able to see the good inside him. Perhaps Hayward had taught all of them how to play golf. And so my fake sarcastic apology turned into a real one. I realized that he isn’t the monster the media has made him out to be. He’s just a regular guy with a heart of gold, golfing with the rest of us.

In the course of my studies at Carleton College, I had to do a brief, shallow research project about gladiators. I was involved in a group, of which the other members produced web pages on various topics surrounding gladiatorial combat. I personally wrote the segment on amphitheaters, the large, round arenas in which gladiatorial combat took place. It is viewable here, although it is possible that you will need to log into the Carleton network.

Additionally, during the course I discovered that taking a 100-level class as a junior or senior is unwise, because the younger members of your class will be in your group, and they will remove all of the books addressing your topic from the shelves, and then they will take them and read them and write a brief, shallow account of gladiators’ social status in ancient Rome, and then they will leave them all on a random table near the back stairwell on the first floor of the library. To my younger audience, I recommend the elimination of introductory credits as soon as possible.

One other thing: It’s fine to hang around with hoboes, but only if they give you their booze.

An Editor Interviews Ben Page

On the Island there is a dead tree

Each time we float ‘neath it we see

Its bones in the light

Blue herons take flight

To survey the river’s great beauty.

Damnit, Balls, I entirely forgot the 2nd one.

I saw a hummingbird yesterday in the garden. “Hey!” I said. “Look, a hummingbird!”

But Bardwell didn’t notice. He was too busy mourning the sad state of his Mugo pine.