According to the Almanac, which claims an 80% accuracy rate and correctly predicted last winter's protracted misery, the Tri-State will be hotter, humid-er and thunderstormier than usual this summer. Already, online assholes everywhere have started to chortle about a "Solar Vortex"--sure to become the latest in face-punchingly annoying hashtag catchphrases.
Nobody in their right mind likes armpit weather but I have to say my feelings about this particular forecast are mixed. Last year it was decided that the summer golf season in New York will now be categorized as the off-season, on account of an intense dislike of five-hour rounds and increasingly, all the other people in the world who play golf.
And besides, as I mentioned I'm a driving range-douchebag now, content enough to pound away at my trusty buckets. Now that I've given up the back tees for the practice tees, niggling concerns like score, handicaps, slow play, bad lies, etiquette, other people, putting, etc. no longer grind my gears. Now I can add bad weather to that list. So that part of me isn't too broken up about the upcoming hell-summer. Oh who are we kidding--that part of me is downright heartwarmed at the thought of foul weather sabotaging people's pointless attempts to play golf. (Talking only about New York people of course. All you other people, your golf's not pointless.)
What's happening to me? What's happening to golf? What's happened to me and golf? Spring has been eye-rollingly lame and un-Springlike, which I'll go ahead and blame for my fuckall attitude about everything lately. Last week I happened across an old photo, taken out of my window in mid-April 2012.
For comparison I took a fresh one:
|April 2014--weep for all mankind.
In a good year, no, a usual year, there's that first life-affirming warm day, on which Spring declares its arrival, pounding everyone over the head with soft balmy air, the scents of blooming flora and a general sense of optimism. Sadly we are still waiting for that day.
Is this all a sign of things to come? Is this what we can look forward to, a hellish dystopian future with just two extreme seasons to a year--barren, spirit-crushing winters, and thundery, wet, oven-roast summers? If so, I welcome the new world order. The stalls at the range are sheltered from rain and harsh sun. Pretty sure I can still beat balls just the same.