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launch monitor - swing statistics (golf)
I used a radar to determine my current average golf club distances. This is a first for me (and I enjoy tracking anything done for a first time). As one ages and loses muscle, one's "numbers" change. Hopefully, this will help. Too often, I'm missing the club's sweet-spot...which is lowering my carry distance.
Club (degree) Speed (mph) Loft (angle) Carry Yardage Total Yardage
Driver (10.5) 96 13.5 222 245
3 Wd (15) 91 11.5 187 207 (should be 210-carry 225-total)
5 Wd (19) 92 15 190 208
3 I (21) 88 17 175 188
4 I (23) 84 17.5 164 176
5 I (27) 83 18 150 157
6 I (30) 84 21.5 144 152
7 I (34) 84 23 133 140
8 I (37) 83 25 122 126
9 I (41) 78 28 110 113
PW (45) 73 30 90 91
Hypocrisy — An Invaluable Discriminator
I recall riding in cars in the 1970's with my step-dad behind the wheel. In traffic, he would holler and gesture and 'talk a blue streak' (mom-speak) about other drivers and pedestrians. At home, he would occasionally shout at TV newscasters. In person, however, he was always polite...to a fault.
Who was my step-dad?
A reactionary, idiotic, rude, old man; intelligent enough to know when to filter himself? Or was he a courteous, open-minded, thoughtful person who—when safely ensconced on the other-side of a protective barrier—ranted at the occasional egregiously-behaved fool or jester? I don't know if the answer is important. I suspect it's not. But the question is.
Immediate family were the only witnesses to his bursts of vitriol. I seriously doubt he would ever have defined himself using negative verbiage of any stripe (even the concept of defining himself would have been foreign to him). I think of all the co-workers, fellow congregants, neighbors and extended family members who thought they knew him but who never witnessed him shout, "Pick a fuckin lane you miserable cunt!" or "They otta throw all those longhair-draft-dodgein-fags in the slammer!"
If you subscribe to the belief that people 'reveal their true nature' in times when their guard is down...my step-dad was Archie Bunker wearing a Jimmy Carter mask. When I consider his behavior in the context of how it affected who I grew up to be, I focus on the hypocrisy. His lifelong struggle to keep internal-Archie mute and fabricate the external-Jimmy persona must have been immensely difficult; as difficult as a homosexual who (in 1966 America) decided at the age of thirty-nine to forevermore deny his innate attraction and marry an aging divorcée with two grade-school children before moving his ready-made family half-way across the country (this unrelated suspicion I have about my step-dad is based on very few facts; I merely include it here to suggest there were possible other hidden layers to "who he really was").
Back to hypocrisy. I suspect it's a much more valuable discriminator than many people realize. How often do you attempt to measure someone's normally hidden hypocrisy? It's one of, if not THE primary tool I use to decide if someone is a trusted friend or merely an acquaintance.
Here is a quote from one of the most un-hypocritical people I've ever known; I hope he remains my good friend for a long time to come: "If I'd been friends with OJ Simpson, and, back in 1994, I went to talk to him and he said to me, 'Dude, I just snapped when I saw 'em together.' Then I'd have just said, 'That's cool, let's go play golf.' But if he was all, 'Hey, I hope they catch who really did it.' Then I wouldn't have been able to stay friends with him."
Chris's blog post Don't call me a "liberal" begins with this excerpt (above-right) of commenters on a Weather.com article about the current drought in Texas. As is often the case, give a hypocrite a protective barrier (the epitome of web-commenting) and they let their inner Archie Bunker out.
I learned from my step-dad what I didn't want to be. Who you read here is who you talk to on the phone is who you meet in person. Liberal?..ok. Hypocrite?..never.
Who was my step-dad?
A reactionary, idiotic, rude, old man; intelligent enough to know when to filter himself? Or was he a courteous, open-minded, thoughtful person who—when safely ensconced on the other-side of a protective barrier—ranted at the occasional egregiously-behaved fool or jester? I don't know if the answer is important. I suspect it's not. But the question is.
Immediate family were the only witnesses to his bursts of vitriol. I seriously doubt he would ever have defined himself using negative verbiage of any stripe (even the concept of defining himself would have been foreign to him). I think of all the co-workers, fellow congregants, neighbors and extended family members who thought they knew him but who never witnessed him shout, "Pick a fuckin lane you miserable cunt!" or "They otta throw all those longhair-draft-dodgein-fags in the slammer!" If you subscribe to the belief that people 'reveal their true nature' in times when their guard is down...my step-dad was Archie Bunker wearing a Jimmy Carter mask. When I consider his behavior in the context of how it affected who I grew up to be, I focus on the hypocrisy. His lifelong struggle to keep internal-Archie mute and fabricate the external-Jimmy persona must have been immensely difficult; as difficult as a homosexual who (in 1966 America) decided at the age of thirty-nine to forevermore deny his innate attraction and marry an aging divorcée with two grade-school children before moving his ready-made family half-way across the country (this unrelated suspicion I have about my step-dad is based on very few facts; I merely include it here to suggest there were possible other hidden layers to "who he really was").Back to hypocrisy. I suspect it's a much more valuable discriminator than many people realize. How often do you attempt to measure someone's normally hidden hypocrisy? It's one of, if not THE primary tool I use to decide if someone is a trusted friend or merely an acquaintance.
Here is a quote from one of the most un-hypocritical people I've ever known; I hope he remains my good friend for a long time to come: "If I'd been friends with OJ Simpson, and, back in 1994, I went to talk to him and he said to me, 'Dude, I just snapped when I saw 'em together.' Then I'd have just said, 'That's cool, let's go play golf.' But if he was all, 'Hey, I hope they catch who really did it.' Then I wouldn't have been able to stay friends with him."
Chris's blog post Don't call me a "liberal" begins with this excerpt (above-right) of commenters on a Weather.com article about the current drought in Texas. As is often the case, give a hypocrite a protective barrier (the epitome of web-commenting) and they let their inner Archie Bunker out.
I learned from my step-dad what I didn't want to be. Who you read here is who you talk to on the phone is who you meet in person. Liberal?..ok. Hypocrite?..never.
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LIMBO - game review - ☆☆☆☆☆
I enjoy puzzles. I get a wonderful micro-instant brain fizz when, after extensive trial and error (or in the case of this game—trial, death, and re-spawn) 'I can't figure this one out' crystallizes, the solution clicks in my gulliver, and...'oh yea! Gotcha.'If Edward Gorey designed a side-scroller like The Humans, it would be Limbo; a game with good value for average invested entertainment time ($15 for ≈15 hours). A few of its 39 chapters are time-sensitive, which seem more a test of hand-eye coordination than mental dexterity; others rely on pure deduction (path + tools = looks impossible but it's not); a few are sequence oriented; many are a combination of all of the above. Add the occasional anti-gravity device, electro-magnet, huge insect, and...well...you get a great puzzle game.
summer-goings-on
The summer is half-gone. The weather outside is delightful (with nary a day above 90 this year). I'm not rubbing it in, I empathize with the rest of the sweltering US, but in a glad-it's-not-me kind of way. I've kept busy golfing (although I only broke 90 once), disc golfing, hiking with my cat, preparing my 5th wheel trailer and selling it, as well as playing the video game Fallout New Vegas.
I played the first Fallout for a brief time in 1997 and hated it. This one, the fourth in the series, was much more of a "puzzle solver and strategy game" than a "first-person shooter" and, therefore, very enjoyable for me.
RUBBER - Film Review - ☆☆☆☆☆
This quirkaholic of quirky independent films is very worth going out of your way to see if you're a fan of un-pigeonhole-able esoteric comedies.
Why quirky? Well, let's see. Although it looks like it was filmed in the high-desert of California, it was actually filmed by French filmmakers, in Angola, (where Portuguese is the national language) with an all English-speaking cast. Except for the tire. It doesn't talk. It kills people; but it does so mutely. The name of the film's production company is Elle Driver; that's pretty quirky...Daryl Hannah's character in Kill Bill. The capper for the label king-o-the-quirk is the film's preface-prologue-dialogue:
In the Stephen Spielberg film ET, why is the alien brown? No reason. In Love Story, why do the two characters fall madly in love with each other? No reason. In Oliver Stone's JFK, why is the president suddenly assassinated by some stranger? No reason. In the excellent Chain Saw Massacre by Tobe Hooper why don’t we ever see the characters go to the bathroom or wash their hands like people do in real life? Absolutely no reason. Worse, in The Pianist by Polanski, how come this guy has to hide and live like a bum when he plays the piano so well? Once again, the answer is: no reason!
I could go on for hours with more examples. The list in endless. You probably never gave it a thought; but all great films—without exception—contain an important element of: 'no reason'. And you know why? Because life itself is filled with no reason.
Why can't we see the air all around us? No reason. Why are we always thinking? No reason. Why do some people love sausages and other people hate sausages? No fucking reason!
I enjoyed it immensely.
GRAB BAG
Welcome to Pin-The-Tale on You. Every mature person you will ever pass on the street has more-than-probably done things which could qualify them to be labeled 'bad' or 'good'. It just depends on who tells your story; and, of course, how the game show audience reacts to it. Our grab bag spinner will stop when your tale is finished. Will it land on B, for bad? G for Good? Maybe you're a combination of equal parts bad and good; if so, the spinner could stop on A for Average. And—of course—the audience may choose to reject you from the game (spinner on R); this normally only happens when someone competes who's mentally incapable of understanding the difference between good and bad.
I recall grab bags from childhood fairs. A game of chance. After money was paid (I recall it being ten cents) I reached into a large basket and removed (grabbed) a wrapped unknown paper-wrapped item (bag). It was usually something worthless; and, by that, I don't mean it had zero value, just that the items were worth less than a dime. Worth less.
When we were children my mother told us this nursery rhyme (which, today, Squire attributes to the poet Longfellow): There was a little girl, who had a little curl, right in the middle of her forehead; when she was good, she was very very good, but when she was bad she was horrid.
For too-many-to-count I was (and am still) plagued by bad people. I've had my fill.
For seventeen of my twenty military years I worked in law enforcement, where (obviously) it was my job to prevent people from doing bad things, catch those who had already done bad things, and (once I became a supervisor) train my subordinates to do the preventing/catching while (most important) insure there were no subordinates who were bad.
Lately, I've been (unsuccessfully) trying to help the two spawn of my fiancée grow up. They, too, are worth less than the time and money I have invested. Although one is nearly a legal adult (17 biological years old; mentally 14; emotionally 12) and the other is legally an adult (23 biological years old; mentally 15; emotionally ?...he has none) neither has the capacity, wherewithal, ability, or desire to be good. Actually, the opposite seems to be true.
Over the last eight months the 17 year old has spent 4 months in jail, (theft, drugs, various probation violations) the other 4 months he repeatedly ran away and lived on friends couches and the street. There are no rules he is willing to obey. He says jail means nothing. It's just "hitting the pause button with free food and TV". We've rarely seen him in 2011 except in various different courtrooms.
My years as a cop tells me he is going to continue to commit more serious felonies and will spend the majority of his life in prison.
The 23 year old has never had a drivers license, never held a job long enough to put on a résumé, and has also spent a few months in jail (drugs, resisting arrest). His increasingly erratic behavior could be disorganized schizophrenia. He refuses to discuss or ever admit he acts abnormally. In his mind his actions (hording, inability to focus, substance abuse, lack of hygiene, obsessive-compulsive actions, and an inability to handle any property without damaging it) are normal. He claims he doesn't need anything but to eat my food, waste my hot water, live in my guest room, and use my electricity. We evicted him this week (and—don't get the wrong idea—he only visited for three weeks...which turned out to be 19 days too long).
My years as a member of civilized society tells me he is going to be a petty criminal who spends his life in dozens of different homeless shelters and on the street begging for spare change.
The studio audience has voted.
The spinner for the 17 year old lands on B...and it's leaning towards HORRID.
The spinner for the 23 year old stopped on R.
When we were children my mother told us this nursery rhyme (which, today, Squire attributes to the poet Longfellow): There was a little girl, who had a little curl, right in the middle of her forehead; when she was good, she was very very good, but when she was bad she was horrid.
For too-many-to-count I was (and am still) plagued by bad people. I've had my fill.
For seventeen of my twenty military years I worked in law enforcement, where (obviously) it was my job to prevent people from doing bad things, catch those who had already done bad things, and (once I became a supervisor) train my subordinates to do the preventing/catching while (most important) insure there were no subordinates who were bad.
Lately, I've been (unsuccessfully) trying to help the two spawn of my fiancée grow up. They, too, are worth less than the time and money I have invested. Although one is nearly a legal adult (17 biological years old; mentally 14; emotionally 12) and the other is legally an adult (23 biological years old; mentally 15; emotionally ?...he has none) neither has the capacity, wherewithal, ability, or desire to be good. Actually, the opposite seems to be true.
Over the last eight months the 17 year old has spent 4 months in jail, (theft, drugs, various probation violations) the other 4 months he repeatedly ran away and lived on friends couches and the street. There are no rules he is willing to obey. He says jail means nothing. It's just "hitting the pause button with free food and TV". We've rarely seen him in 2011 except in various different courtrooms.
My years as a cop tells me he is going to continue to commit more serious felonies and will spend the majority of his life in prison.
The 23 year old has never had a drivers license, never held a job long enough to put on a résumé, and has also spent a few months in jail (drugs, resisting arrest). His increasingly erratic behavior could be disorganized schizophrenia. He refuses to discuss or ever admit he acts abnormally. In his mind his actions (hording, inability to focus, substance abuse, lack of hygiene, obsessive-compulsive actions, and an inability to handle any property without damaging it) are normal. He claims he doesn't need anything but to eat my food, waste my hot water, live in my guest room, and use my electricity. We evicted him this week (and—don't get the wrong idea—he only visited for three weeks...which turned out to be 19 days too long).
My years as a member of civilized society tells me he is going to be a petty criminal who spends his life in dozens of different homeless shelters and on the street begging for spare change.
The studio audience has voted.
The spinner for the 17 year old lands on B...and it's leaning towards HORRID.
The spinner for the 23 year old stopped on R.
The Tree of Life - Review (☆☆☆☆)
This is not a film for the masses. It doesn't matter that Pitt and Penn are in it. It also doesn't matter that almost every critic loves it (including unpaid ones like me). It matters slightly that it was written and directed by Terrence Malick, because he directed The Thin Red Line and The New World; if you remember those films, and liked them, there's a slight chance you'll like this one too. And, it doesn't matter that Malick won the Palme D'Or for it either.The reason it doesn't matter that Pitt and Penn are in it is because dialogue is slim to nonexistent and they share a very crowded stage with trees, supernovas, rivers, dinosaurs, flames, volcanoes, oceans, births, deaths and dozens of other fractured-kaleidoscope images compiled with whispered suggestions for the viewer to interpret as they will.
Were we seeing the narrator's today-thoughts? His or her memories? Dreams? Could these images (set to pipe organ religious and classical music) be interpreted as answers to the various narrator's muttered prayers? Was this just a 50's era retelling of the Oedipus myth? If you like/need your films to provide closure and answers...this one intentionally does the opposite. It provides nothing but fodder for thought and discussion. I suspect very few people will take away the same message. (Leaving the theater, I overheard a woman ask, "Who was Sean Penn supposed to be?")
I question if it would ever be necessary to include the words 'spoiler alert' when talking about this film. I don't think so. Just like it's impossible to spoil an abstract expressionist's painting by explaining what you think someone else should look for in it, The Tree of Life is an existential expressionist film and telling about the images shown and scenes depicted is no way similar to saying "Keven Spacey is Keyser Söze" because...in more ways than one...there is no plot. There are events that unfold. Personalities are revealed. Characters interact. But everything important to understanding the film goes on in the viewer's mind. The various beliefs and multitude of experiences you bring to the theater—impacts what the film means. To you.
Riddles and panoramic images of the massively huge and the insanely tiny (some of the CGI = low Discovery-Channel quality) are interspersed with day-in-the-life scenes from middle America, half a century ago. The target audience for this film are those who can relate, personally, with white, middle-class, small town life before the era of The Beatles/Vietnam/Woodstock et. al. (viewers who are not Caucasian, or never lived in a small town, or were not middle class, or are not—currently—older than 40...will probably dislike/not understand this film).
I've read a few reviews of this film; there are some common threads.
Many critics focus on the father's (Pitt's) stern attitude and behavior. Some use the term abusive; others soften their label and write: borderline abusive. No matter. What's important is they're all unable to keep their personal beliefs out of their reviews. It is that kind of film. It forces you to focus on and evaluate your personal beliefs. (If I were to allow personal beliefs to enter mine, I'd write: the little deviant, back-talking, miscreants deserved more punishment than they got and their mindless moronic mother needed something to force her head out of the clouds.)
Also, the vast majority of those who dislike/don't understand this film use the word pretentious in their reviews (seems to be the go-to word of the proudly and willfully ignorant). If you're not a fan of art-house films as well as recent Palm D'Or winners (e.g. The White Ribbon, 2009; 4 Months, 3 Weeks and 2 Days, 2007; Dancer in the Dark, 2000) don't let slick marketing (Pitt and Penn!) convince you to see this one. In the future, ask someone you trust to be your film umpire. If you do see a film you don't understand, don't be petulant...just admit it was beyond your grasp.
I haven't seen many abstract fiction films (Ingmar Bergman's come to mind; I don't understand them at all) but I give this one four stars because it's unique and, even though I can't say I understood all of it, I liked/like thinking about what it caused me to contemplate.
Those avid filmophiles who see hundreds of films a year will be entertained by its originality. Every year there are so many films which are almost immediately forgettable; this film is anything but.
More on my film criticism:
Why?
I rarely look at my blog's statistics. My reason for writing these pages is more about the act of creating than who my audience might be. I occasionally enjoy looking back at my thoughts from yestermonth; and in a decade or three I'll have a massive record of who I was. (Hey...stranger things have happened! Just because my male ancestors on both sides all died before reaching social-security-age...doesn't mean the grim reaper has already penciled-in my reservation. *he says, mentally knocking on wood*) If I do survive until then, I intend to re-read and peruse this s n a p p e r h e a d web blog in order to combat or stimulate my senility.
Today, I learned from my blog's statistics that the post I wrote on 20 November 2009, Life-Mission: Possible, has been read (or at least visited) 512 unique times. I crafted that hopefully-funny, quasi-autobiographical post to show how, from childhood to retirement, I selfishly and constantly consumed things, furnishings, appliances, pets, and women. In the article, I reflected on films and TV shows (like Mission Impossible) as my life's mileage markers.
I can understand why some of my other posts have been (and will continue to be) so-often visited; they contain adult oriented, often searched, keywords.
When a page contains more than a couple anatomically explicit words, which your average cock in hand mouth-breather thinks are somehow connotative of sex, it might blow your mind the bucket load of ass-hats who flock to that page. You get the idea...I don't need to include words like cum, cunt, or fuck to pull in page views...hell...this post (now that it contains all these naughty bits) may surpass 512 visits in less than a month. The icing on the cake (albeit the word fetish would help it become a shoe in) to guarantee that it becomes the post-with-the-most is a lurid image (or threesome). Not even a good or explicit pornographic picture, just a light to attract the porn moth's attention. Maybe just a black and white snapshot which looks like something it isn't.
Today, I learned from my blog's statistics that the post I wrote on 20 November 2009, Life-Mission: Possible, has been read (or at least visited) 512 unique times. I crafted that hopefully-funny, quasi-autobiographical post to show how, from childhood to retirement, I selfishly and constantly consumed things, furnishings, appliances, pets, and women. In the article, I reflected on films and TV shows (like Mission Impossible) as my life's mileage markers.
I can understand why some of my other posts have been (and will continue to be) so-often visited; they contain adult oriented, often searched, keywords.
When a page contains more than a couple anatomically explicit words, which your average cock in hand mouth-breather thinks are somehow connotative of sex, it might blow your mind the bucket load of ass-hats who flock to that page. You get the idea...I don't need to include words like cum, cunt, or fuck to pull in page views...hell...this post (now that it contains all these naughty bits) may surpass 512 visits in less than a month. The icing on the cake (albeit the word fetish would help it become a shoe in) to guarantee that it becomes the post-with-the-most is a lurid image (or threesome). Not even a good or explicit pornographic picture, just a light to attract the porn moth's attention. Maybe just a black and white snapshot which looks like something it isn't.
I THINK YOU KNOW WHY
Re-written / updated Feb 2020
Disc Golf Stability Chart, overstable/understable
While perusing SQUIRE for disc-golf information, I failed to find a succinctly written explanation which might assist novice discgolfers in disc selection; so, here are a few simple suggestions:
You can play disc golf with only one disc. Start with a very stable multi-purpose one (like a Vibram Ascent). I recommend bright colors; why take a chance on losing it?
Three discs are sufficient to attain good scores: a long-range driver that turns slightly at the end of its flight; a mid-range disc that turns slightly in the opposite direction of your driver; and a putter.
Putters are soft and designed to absorb forward momentum and bend/drop on impact (with the target chains, hopefully). Drivers and mid-range discs are hard and bounce/ricochet upon impact.
Disc weights only become important once you refine your throw. Heavy discs (more than 170 grams) fly longer and are less affected by cross-winds; light discs (less than 150 grams) are better for children. Begin with medium driving and mid-range discs (150 to 170 grams). The weight of your putting-disc is unimportant.
Depending upon which hand you use and whether you throw sidearm or backhand, (some throw both) either a clockwise or counterclockwise spin is imparted on the disc. Almost all discs 'fade slightly' or 'turn greatly' one way or the other, as they slow down at the end of their flight. This chart should help you understand disc stability:
Those discs which turn or fade in the same direction as their spin are referred to as under-stable. The amount they fade is indicated in negative numbers: -0.5 = slightly under-stable, -4.0 = very under-stable. Discs which turn or fade in the opposite direction from their spin are referred to as over-stable. The amount they fade is indicated in positive numbers: +0.5 = slightly over-stable, +4.0 = very over-stable. (I use this key to remember these terms: O = Opposite, Over-stable, pOsitive numbers).
The driver and mid-range discs of beginners should be between .5 and 1.5 (If your first driver is over-stable your first mid-range disc should be under-stable and vice versa.)
LOCAL PDX DISC GOLF COURSE: If you're a discgolfer in the Portland area, the best place to play is Horning's Hideout. They have three 18 hole courses. All 54 holes have professional tee boxes, signage, and targets. Their Meadow Ridge Course is ranked in the top ten nationally (and it'll kick your ass and send it home crying to momma if you're a bogey discgolfer...like me). Their Canyon Course is my favorite and their Highland Course is fun and challenging. The $3.00 day-fee and the 30-45 minute drive cuts down on lark-in-the-park-nutjobs. Interested in a game?—veachglines@gmail.com—and I'll meet you there (as long as it isn't raining).
You can play disc golf with only one disc. Start with a very stable multi-purpose one (like a Vibram Ascent). I recommend bright colors; why take a chance on losing it?
Three discs are sufficient to attain good scores: a long-range driver that turns slightly at the end of its flight; a mid-range disc that turns slightly in the opposite direction of your driver; and a putter.
Putters are soft and designed to absorb forward momentum and bend/drop on impact (with the target chains, hopefully). Drivers and mid-range discs are hard and bounce/ricochet upon impact.
Disc weights only become important once you refine your throw. Heavy discs (more than 170 grams) fly longer and are less affected by cross-winds; light discs (less than 150 grams) are better for children. Begin with medium driving and mid-range discs (150 to 170 grams). The weight of your putting-disc is unimportant.
Depending upon which hand you use and whether you throw sidearm or backhand, (some throw both) either a clockwise or counterclockwise spin is imparted on the disc. Almost all discs 'fade slightly' or 'turn greatly' one way or the other, as they slow down at the end of their flight. This chart should help you understand disc stability:
Those discs which turn or fade in the same direction as their spin are referred to as under-stable. The amount they fade is indicated in negative numbers: -0.5 = slightly under-stable, -4.0 = very under-stable. Discs which turn or fade in the opposite direction from their spin are referred to as over-stable. The amount they fade is indicated in positive numbers: +0.5 = slightly over-stable, +4.0 = very over-stable. (I use this key to remember these terms: O = Opposite, Over-stable, pOsitive numbers).
The driver and mid-range discs of beginners should be between .5 and 1.5 (If your first driver is over-stable your first mid-range disc should be under-stable and vice versa.)
LOCAL PDX DISC GOLF COURSE: If you're a discgolfer in the Portland area, the best place to play is Horning's Hideout. They have three 18 hole courses. All 54 holes have professional tee boxes, signage, and targets. Their Meadow Ridge Course is ranked in the top ten nationally (and it'll kick your ass and send it home crying to momma if you're a bogey discgolfer...like me). Their Canyon Course is my favorite and their Highland Course is fun and challenging. The $3.00 day-fee and the 30-45 minute drive cuts down on lark-in-the-park-nutjobs. Interested in a game?—veachglines@gmail.com—and I'll meet you there (as long as it isn't raining).
Disc Golf Station - Review (☆☆☆☆)
Another first.Last month, the fantastic folks at Disc Golf Station offered me a free disc in exchange for my review. I explained to them that I was in the market for an under-stable heavy disc and they selected/sent me a DISCRAFT ESP Meteor mid-range (pictured). It is heavy (175 grams) has a great feel on release, and is minutely under-stable.
A brief explanation (for those elderly readers thinking 'backyard Frisbee'). A discgolf disc is referred to as stable when it remains on a straight path no matter how it is spun-thrown (which would be indicated by the number 0.0 in its description). Depending upon which hand you throw with and how you throw, you impart a clockwise or a counterclockwise spin on the disc; almost all discs 'fade slightly' or 'turn greatly' one way or the other, as their spin slows at the end of their flight.
Those discs which turn or fade in the same direction as their spin are referred to as under-stable. The amount they fade is indicated in negative numbers: -0.5 = slightly under-stable, -4.0 = very under-stable.
Discs which turn or fade in the opposite direction from their spin are referred to as over-stable. The amount they fade is indicated in positive numbers: +0.5 = slightly over-stable, +4.0 = very over-stable. (a key I use to remember these terms: O = Opposite, Over-stable, pOsitive numbers).
PROS: Discgolfstation.com has a continually-evolving and wonderful selection of discs. They are aware of the importance of clearly identifying the available weight, stability, and color of each disc they have on-hand. Color is important. I refuse to throw green or blue discs...the colors of professionals and fools (for those who know exactly where their discs will land and those who don't mind losing $15.00 in short foliage). I'm neither. I love that they include free shipping for almost everything. Their discs are comparable (and in a majority of cases cheaper) than I've found in several brick-and-mortar stores. For these reasons, I'll continue to shop for future discs at Disc Golf Station.
CONS: Some of the descriptions on discgolfstation.com are confusing and many don't take into consideration that wear and use will change a disc's flight performance. Strangely, a few of the disc's write-ups explain how it'll fly when thrown in one manner ("for right hand, backhand throws" is found in many places). Any disc-synopsis containing the words 'right', 'left', as well as 'hyzer' or 'anhyzer' (which always need added explanation) is confusing and misleading. Intentionally snubbing every left-handed discgolfer and all those right handed discgolfers who don't throw backhanded seems contrary to good business.
I've been playing disc golf for years and I'm familiar with all the foolish and incomprehensible terms, so I don't pay attention to confusing explanations for what +1.5 or -0.5 means when describing over- or under-stability. I suspect, however, that's not the case with everyone. For the novice shopper, Disc Golf Station could benefit from a clearer and more-succinct emphasis on the browsing and pre-ordering phase.
Their entire Disc Golf Info page should be re-tooled with a more mature and professional audience in mind. Currently, it begins with: Disc Golf, commonly known as frisbee golf, is the most amazing sport ever invented! Easy to learn and FUN to play..." Gadzooks Batman, it hasn't been referred to as 'frisbee golf' for decades. The flagrant use of exclamation points and CAPS indicates someone thought it'd be neato-keeno to have their ten year old write copy.
None the less, thank you Disc Golf Station, your Discraft Meteor ESP is a fantastic disc. If you are a knowledgeable discgolfer and are already aware what disc you are looking for, I recommend Disc Golf Station.
Glove Shoes (Glooes)
For about five years in the mid-1980s I wore grey puffy moon-boots. In the 1990s I had a pair of deckshoes, made by Timberland, with a foot-hugging gripping padded insert (which they discontinued). It seems when I find something I absolutely love it's a sure-bet guarantee there're very few other people on the planet who think the same way. In the early 2000s I found a pair of leather clogs with a squshy leather insole made by a company in Israel that fit perfectly...so I bought three pairs; one a little larger for when I might need to wear socks.
Recently, I purchased my first pair of Vibram FiveFingers leather toe-shoes. It's like walking barefoot only with traction and protection. Hiking, disc golfing, no matter where...they are more comfortable than any other summer shoe I've ever worn. I feel as if I'm wearing a thin glove on my feet. I love them.
Which means they are just too weird and will only be available on ebay soon. So. I'll have to get a few pair in different colors and one a size bigger for socks. Yea...these socks.
Decoration Day
Please take this moment to think about those who's lives ended while they were wearing a uniform. It doesn't matter if you believe the conflict they were a part of was justified...or even if they did.It doesn't matter if they were defending the North or the South (Korea, Vietnam, the US...it's always north and south); or if they were searching-for or not-hiding weapons of mass destruction; or if they were the victorious or the massacred (at the Little Big Horn, Twin Towers, or Pearl Harbor). All that matters is they died serving their respective countries or belief-systems, following their orders and protecting others.
LA NOIRE - Review (☆☆☆☆☆)
"No." I said, keeping the hop-headed juvenile delinquent in my peripheral vision while still focusing on the baby booming post-war city of angels (where none are depicted). "In fact, I find the opposite to be true."
If you're a fan of any or all of the games made by Rockstar, you'll like this one and will be in familiar territory. Here, instead of being a gangster (like in all the GTA's) or an outlaw (Red Dead Redemption) you're a good cop in a world of corruption. Just like previous Rockstar's, you still drive any and every vehicle—but in 1947 L.A. you ask politely or 'emergency commandeer' them—but, different from previous games, you must drive carefully; hitting citizens or damaging property ruins your score.
The map of Los Angeles is huge and there are more puzzles than ever before. Players must find 50 golden film reels (hard—I've only found 2); discover and photograph all the 1947 landmarks; drive 95 different cars (not too hard—I've already found 83); and solve a few dozen crimes by locating evidence and interviewing people.
Here's where being a former cop is a detriment: You choose from truth, doubt, or lie after they answer every interview question. No going back. No do-overs. No interrogations. No repeating yourself. And, if you don't have hard, tangible, evidence in-hand you can't accuse them of lying. But...just like in real life...everyone rarely tells the truth. So far, I'm the worst at determining who's telling the truth and who to doubt (there's a built-in work-around using "intuition points," but I've not resorted to that quasi-cheat—obviously, my downfall).
All the missions in the game could probably reach 'case closed' status in less than 25 total-hours. However, with all the side missions, puzzles, and the occasional case do-over (because your outcome changes depending on the quantity of evidence you compile, confessions you obtain, and collateral damage you avoid) I believe the game will/could take a minimum of 75-100 hours before boredom sets in.
Although I think LA NOIRE deserves my highest rating, it's not for children. Not because it's rife with the stereotypical misogyny, racism, and hyper-nationalism often depicted in films and TV, which show us post-WWII America through a dark and gritty lens, (e.g. Dragnet, The Killers, The Two Jakes) nor because it contains violence, nudity, and profanity (albeit that's not a bad reason) but because it requires an adult's reasoning and sensibility. If you're old enough to enjoy a black-and-white police procedural you'll understand and appreciate this game.
Sour Beer
A first.
I enjoy each and every "first" (as one should at my age).
Today it was sour beer.
It has sip-ability. It's not a drink one can consume in quantity or at speed. Think: SweeTarts or Sour Patch candy in a dark beer.
World Bellydance Day Flashmob
Portland's Pioneer Courthouse Square, 14 May 2001. World Belly Dance Day. Belly dance flashmob (choreographed, directed and produced by my fiancée).
Thought We Had 594 Days? Now It's 14.
Yuuup...there's always going to be someone out there more bizarre and unstable than normal-weird. I say normal-weird because (as far as I can tell) there's always been a constant median of weirdness everywhere you look. I've come to expect it. If I took a downtown-stroll and didn't see at least a couple normal weirdos, I'd feel deprived—like an 'every-predator-asleep' visit to the zoo. With the population constantly rising, I expect there to gradually be more and more normal weirdos plying their brand of loony in my vicinity; not less....nooope.
But, these two über-weirdos say that starting on the 21st of May (in two weeks) the earth's going to begin being earthquaked to smithereens. Then, according to their interpretation of an ancient allegorical anthology, over the next 153 days the universe crumbles and finally extinguishes on Friday, 21 October 2011.
Shit! I was hoping to get my golf game consistently under 90 this summer. It was already going to be tough—I just got a new putter—but now, with constant earthquakes, it's going to be nearly impossible. And here I was counting on the 594 more days the Mayan's promised and voting in next year's election as well.
Shit! I was hoping to get my golf game consistently under 90 this summer. It was already going to be tough—I just got a new putter—but now, with constant earthquakes, it's going to be nearly impossible. And here I was counting on the 594 more days the Mayan's promised and voting in next year's election as well.
Irishwind: An Amazing Artist
Recently, I learned that some people are either unable or less-prone to seeing "things which aren't there" and, I surmise, that's a primary reason why some don't like abstract art. When someone says they "don't understand" a work of art—what they mean is they are unable to look at (hear, watch) something that relies upon the "abilities" of pareidolia-apophenia (either or both) to appreciate it.
Irishwind's art can be seen here. Go appreciate it! (Even if you are pareapop-blind.)
MySoLiMo - My Song List Month
 In March-April I participated in a month-of-songs. I began by following someone. Once I learned it was a meme, *wards evil-claw while hissing* I began creating my own categories. Listen to the 30-song playlist (2hr 49min) on YouTube Music.
other music lists: |
What The Fuss Is All About Patrick Rothfuss
About once a decade I "discover" a "new" fantasy/speculative fiction author with sufficient imagination, drive, and wordsmith-ability to hold me rapt for thousands of pages. Normally, I come upon them—whether stumbling by lucky happenstance or navigating by direction—after their trilogy is complete. Not the case with The Kingkiller Chronicle, written by Patrick Rothfuss.
The first 750 pages (The Name of the Wind) were very good. The next nearly-1000 pages (The Wise Man's Fear) were great-to-excellent and better than the first. The third is still being carefully crafted. I hope it's published early in 2012; with sufficient time for me to read it before the end of the world.
Patrick Rothfuss is on the same shelf as: Orson Scott Card, Frank Herbert, J.R.R. Tolkien, and Gene Wolfe.
☆☆☆ Ratings—The Forgettable 3+/- Defined
Dear anonymous (14-year-old-male) commenter who recommended Sucker Punch and questioned my 3+ rating on Source Code here.
I've previously detailed my unorthodox rating schema.
Simply put: The vast majority of everything is forgettable (the mediocre ☆☆☆).
Over time, we forget things that don't stand-out. ☆☆☆☆☆ are reserved for the few fantastically-great things we witness, and although we try to avoid ☆, occasionally, we step in something terribly-horrible anyway.
Normal rating systems fail to address that the majority of things (over 65%) are forgettable. My system—best visualized as a hyperbolic curve—addresses these bland, middle-range, ☆☆☆, forgettable things by sub-dividing it. 3+ are forgettable with some memorable accomplishments and 3- are forgettable with a few memorable errors.
I've previously detailed my unorthodox rating schema.
Simply put: The vast majority of everything is forgettable (the mediocre ☆☆☆).
Over time, we forget things that don't stand-out. ☆☆☆☆☆ are reserved for the few fantastically-great things we witness, and although we try to avoid ☆, occasionally, we step in something terribly-horrible anyway.
Normal rating systems fail to address that the majority of things (over 65%) are forgettable. My system—best visualized as a hyperbolic curve—addresses these bland, middle-range, ☆☆☆, forgettable things by sub-dividing it. 3+ are forgettable with some memorable accomplishments and 3- are forgettable with a few memorable errors.
pogo ∼ snapperhead ∴ pogos ∼ digi-rends
| Today is my thirtieth-consecutive day of my song list month, which I've grown fond of referring to as MySoLiMo. This eight-letter-run-on is a parody of National Novel Writers Month (NaNoWriMo). I pronounce it like an American butchering the Italian song 'O Sole Mio, but I begin with 'My' instead of 'Oh'. Today's title is a reference to my day-14 title: toothbrush ∼ condom ∴ dental caries ∼ ?.
The original meme author's final title was
The Newest Song You Enjoy
On March 24th I began MySoLiMo mistakenly thinking the titles were coming from the incisive mind of Ginny, a writer whom I respect. I also thought it was going to be a video month (that's how she described it at first). Although I began coloring outside the lines on day 3 (when I selected a sad video, instead of a song) the obvious cracks didn't begin to stand out—for me—until after a week (when I began to suspect Ginny wasn't the author and started choosing my own categories). Because I especially enjoy films, and I wanted to steer the meme back toward videos, my day 8 selection was from a film.
Day ten I briefly touched on the difficulty of creating MySoLiMo categories from whole cloth, while cherry-picking from the more interesting original author's titles. The fourteenth-day Ginny confessed to also disliking the titles. Now that I realized I wouldn't be stepping on her toes, I abandoned the original author's titles (albeit I did ridicule and scorn them more than thrice). I retained the song-theme while continuing to hint at—as well as insert—movie, film, and video (maybe I'll craft a MoFiVoLiMo someday) references whenever the opportunity arose.  Recently I've been listening to Pogo (Australian artist Nick Bertke, not the possum cartoon character who's most memorable caption—quoted in 2009 here—is: We have met the enemy and he is us).I love everything he pogos. Yes, as a verb. It's not mere remixing; no more than my digital renderings from poached images are just photo-shopping. The pogos (versatile, yup, now it's a pronoun) I enjoy most are those distilled from animated films. However, the pogo from his mother's garden is fantastic (makes me tear-up a little); as is the one I saw excerpted on television last month, about a local place I've hiked (Beaver Creek State Park). My newest favorite is Pogo's Wishery. It plays to an entire menagerie of affinations: instrumental, talk-song, film, elec-trance, as well as it chimes both my happy and laugh bells. My complete 30-day list of songs: My Song List Month Redux-Return to Day 1: My Favorite Song |
AFFINATION
A Favorite Talk Song.
Subtitle: (if you're not into the ol' brevity thing) a music composition incorporating instruments and vocals in such a manner that some, or all, vocals are spoken rather than sung (e.g. the rap genre; the song Tubthumper—a safe example because it's nobody's favorite; or everything by Lou Reed).
My favorite talk song is Somewhere Down The Crazy River, by Robbie Robertson.
There are quite a few talk-songs I like. I'm not exactly sure why, but, since I am the most qualified to posit a theory, here goes.
Poetry sounds like a song which has taken a cappella to the extreme. When lyrics are sung the words become part of, and meld with, the song. Speak with instrumental accompaniment, however, and the prose stands out. Tells a story. I have an affination for this type of song-stylin'.
Here's a thing (more of a tangential aside-thing) affination is a word I've used my entire adult life, but it doesn't mean what I want it to mean. And never has. But. I still use it. Affination (from the—obviously—abridged snapperhead dictionary): A proclamation of strong affinity used in much the same manner as the (real) words: abomination, fascination, consignation, and (especially) affectation.**
But where was I? Oh, yeah. Talk-songs. Affinity.
The story takes center stage when a singer downshifts the lyrics and speaks some of the song's words. If he or she has an interesting voice—with a story-teller's ear-catching character and inflection—the story of the song is more-easily sculpted into memory.
Even if you haven't heard Lullabye by Shawn Mullins in over a decade, you probably still remember which celebrities her parents hung out with, at big parties?‡ And, if you (like most) were only confused by the off-putting Mmm(x4) song by The Crash Test Dummies...I still wouldn't be surprised if you, none-the-less, remember why the boy's hair turned from black to bright white?♦
** If you work in the sugar-processing or metallurgical industries, you may feel affronted by my repurposing your word. Good. I would ask that this not become the one turd in a sea of shit that pisses you off and hope you don't decide to do somethin' about this turd—but I won't. I hope it pisses your federally subsidized asses right-the-fuck off.
‡ Dennis Hopper, Bob Seger, Sonny and Cher.
♦ from when the cars crashed sooo hard.
Day 30 - Newest Song You Enjoy
Subtitle: (if you're not into the ol' brevity thing) a music composition incorporating instruments and vocals in such a manner that some, or all, vocals are spoken rather than sung (e.g. the rap genre; the song Tubthumper—a safe example because it's nobody's favorite; or everything by Lou Reed).
My favorite talk song is Somewhere Down The Crazy River, by Robbie Robertson.
There are quite a few talk-songs I like. I'm not exactly sure why, but, since I am the most qualified to posit a theory, here goes.
Poetry sounds like a song which has taken a cappella to the extreme. When lyrics are sung the words become part of, and meld with, the song. Speak with instrumental accompaniment, however, and the prose stands out. Tells a story. I have an affination for this type of song-stylin'.
Here's a thing (more of a tangential aside-thing) affination is a word I've used my entire adult life, but it doesn't mean what I want it to mean. And never has. But. I still use it. Affination (from the—obviously—abridged snapperhead dictionary): A proclamation of strong affinity used in much the same manner as the (real) words: abomination, fascination, consignation, and (especially) affectation.**
But where was I? Oh, yeah. Talk-songs. Affinity.
The story takes center stage when a singer downshifts the lyrics and speaks some of the song's words. If he or she has an interesting voice—with a story-teller's ear-catching character and inflection—the story of the song is more-easily sculpted into memory.
Even if you haven't heard Lullabye by Shawn Mullins in over a decade, you probably still remember which celebrities her parents hung out with, at big parties?‡ And, if you (like most) were only confused by the off-putting Mmm(x4) song by The Crash Test Dummies...I still wouldn't be surprised if you, none-the-less, remember why the boy's hair turned from black to bright white?♦
‡ Dennis Hopper, Bob Seger, Sonny and Cher.
♦ from when the cars crashed sooo hard.
Day 30 - Newest Song You Enjoy
Free My Mind...Just Free My Mind
A Song Which Reflects Your Opinion On The Weather.
The weather, in today's category, is a metaphor. It could have been anything beyond our control; chicken little's non-upcoming apocalypse, solidly proven quantum factoids, the flowering myth of world-wide social equality—anything at all—I just chose weather because it's global (omnipresent), powerful (omnipotent), and everyone has an opinion about it (omnipinint). (Not to be confused with omnipaninint...the burgeoning trend of selling every sandwich on earth with grill lines.)
Feels Like Heaven by Urban Cookie Collective is my metaphorical answer.
But wait.
Why then, does my answer seem meteorological in nature?
I thought that would be obvious from the tone, young grasshopper.
Whether you're too vain to understand metaphors or your brain can only interpret all the information your senses send to it in such an extremely straightforward manner that you're unable to (free your mind) stop fixating on the weathervane, the answer is still the same.
There is no spoon.
It's never just a foot massage.
When you're chewing on life's gristle, don't grumble, give a whistle.
Day 29: A Favorite Talk Song
Feels Like Heaven by Urban Cookie Collective is my metaphorical answer.
But wait.
Why then, does my answer seem meteorological in nature?
I thought that would be obvious from the tone, young grasshopper.
Whether you're too vain to understand metaphors or your brain can only interpret all the information your senses send to it in such an extremely straightforward manner that you're unable to (free your mind) stop fixating on the weathervane, the answer is still the same.
There is no spoon.
It's never just a foot massage.
When you're chewing on life's gristle, don't grumble, give a whistle.
Day 29: A Favorite Talk Song
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