Bowling for soup!? I may be too old to golf

God, I feel old sometimes. I have to confess, I have no idea what a “Bowling for Soup” is or why a fellow golf blogger would be writing about it. Could be that I live in Europe now. Could be that I don’t watch MTV or even VH1 anymore. Could be that most of the CDs in my collection were recorded before Seve Ballesteros won his first major. After reading Flemma’s blog, I figured the Soup Bowlers are some kind of band that golfs (every decade needs its Hootie & the Blowfish, I suppose).

Flemma’s not the only one around here hipper than me. Brandon Tucker starts out a recent blog, asking: “Anyone wanna talk more rap music and golf?” No. NO! For the love of God, NO! I mean an ask-me-again-and-I’ll-take-a-9-iron-to-your-skull kind of no.

Tucker, unable to hear my screams through my monitor, continues. “Think about it, when he first burst on the scene, Puffy was making videos that took place on golf courses, Jay-Z was referencing Tiger left and right … .” Think about it!? Uhh, no! And if you ask me about golf and rap again, Lenny, it’ll be time for for ole George to tell you about them rabbits (just look over yonder - don’t mind this pistol).

When I was in high school (I know, judging from this rant, that must have during the Truman administration), I worked at Turtle Creek Country Club in Tequesta, Florida tending the cart barn. One old guy had a golf cart tricked out with a Rolls Royce grill and a radio and cassette player. At 16, I thought it was hilarious and about the coolest thing I’d ever seen around golf. After hours, me and the other guys would sneak it out for a high-speed run around the back nine with the tunes blaring as loud as they’d go. One morning I was joking with another club member, telling the guy he too ought to outfit his cart with a stereo.

“Mark,” he told me, “the golf course is the only place I can go these days where there’s nothing in my head except the song of the birds and the sound of the wind in the trees.” A powerful point.

Golf may just be the last refuge for old farts like Tim McDonald and I who hum Jimmy Buffett tunes on the course and have no idea what kind of puffy driver Jay-Z uses or why he’d be golfing for soup in the first place.

Hey you kids, get out of my yard!