life in bandon, part I

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I’ve blogged about my caddie years at LaGrange Country Club (←click the link, suckas!), but what I’ve yet to touch on--in any real detail, anyway--are my four summers in Oregon.

Bandon is a coastal community in southern Oregon, nine hours from the Bay Area and four from Portland. (Above pic was taken at Bandon Beach with a $7 camera.) The neighboring towns aren’t all that interesting. Coos Bay borders on the north, which probably doesn’t register unless you--like me--were a fanatical track dork in high school. Steve Prefontaine, one of our most celebrated distance runners, hailed from Coos Bay.

Bandon is as tiny as it sounds, but I’ve erred in my estimations; Wikipedia tells me that roughly 3,000 people--not 1,700, as I previously guessed--populate the town. Formerly a nondescript fishing and logging village (both industries suffered during the 1980s), Bandon experienced a rebirth of sorts when the first course at Bandon Dunes Golf Resort opened to the public in 1999. Ten years and two courses later, many well-traveled golf fiends consider Bandon the world’s premier resort destination. I've heard that statement on more than a few occasions, without a hint of hyperbole.

It went like this: E-mails were sent off and then received, phone calls placed, flights booked, bags packed. Summer ’04--my first out of college--I moved to Bandon with Van, a friend from school.

We squatted in a roadside motel off Highway 101, a major artery which cuts through coastal Washington, Oregon and California. She asked a mere $450--$225 apiece--for rent. Two twin beds, modest sink/vanity, mini fridge, bathroom, maid service. Four minute walk to the freakin’ Pacific Ocean. Not bad. We called that place home for three months.

The resort was a short drive up the road, ten minutes door to door from the motel. Van and I usually arrived at 5:15 in the a.m., if not sooner. There’d be a few other faceless caddies (faceless on account of the darkness, I mean) milling about, smoking cigarettes and muttering to each other.

The caddie shack was--quite literally--a trailor without wheels. Someone plopped this boxy eyesore on the fringe of a parking lot and converted it into a sitting room. The shack housed a big screen TV with an impossible glare; knives of sunlight kicked around the room off the sagging window blinds and dashed any hopes for a clear picture. There must have been a SportsCenter clause appended to the sitting room constitution, because it's all we ever watched. ESPN yielded only to golf, which we tuned to whenever a tournament was airing.

The trailor experienced a bit of a fly problem--an epidemic, really--during the warmer months. Dozens of flies circled the room, landing on bits of muffin and cheeks of sleeping caddies. We massacred them, of course. With my rolled-up Newsweek, I probably took down 40-50 flies a day. Their bloodied carcasses became one with the walls, the tables, the floor.

Then there was another, smaller shack, which acted as a crude cardroom of sorts. We’d huddle around a banged-up table and play Spades for $5 or $10 a pop. Damon (my frequent card partner) and I rarely lost; we probably banked $800 that summer on Spades alone.

Karl cooked for us. Seeing as Karl knew his music (he befriended the Ramones in ’76 and spent the next ten-odd years bopping from venue to venue throughout New England), we hit it off right away. He’d fire off obscure trivia questions, which I usually fielded cleanly. My competence in such matters earned his immediate respect. When not engaged in music talk, Karl scared up some fierce dishes for mere pennies; a chicken-and-cheese wrap the size of my head went for $2.25. Every Sunday he served up hulking pancake dishes for $1.50.

In terms of caddie apparel, we had two options:

1) The “Whites.” The “Whites” were essentially a painter’s uni--a white, canvas, neck-to-toe zip-up that kinda made you look like an Oompa Loompa. Pros: Light, airy, comfortable, versatile, and cheap ($25). Lots of pockets. Cons: AWFUL in the rain. The material absorbs, rather than refracts, water. (See me in "Whites" below.)


2) Gore Tex. The preferred look for most caddies on the resort. A black, two-piece ensemble, Gore Tex provided shell protection from the frequent Bandon rains and kept us warm. Pros: Classier, sexier, more aesthetically pleasing than the “Whites.” Phenomenal rain/wind protection. Cons: The price ($225).

Caddying is more complicated than one might presume. We’re bag carriers, yes, but the job hardly ends there. We’re also counselors, gurus, cheerleaders, chums, guides, comedians, and mediators.

For each and every shot, I’m at my golfer’s side, offering advice. I consider breeze (a significant factor in Bandon, where the average winds are 20 mph), terrain, altitude, the slope of the fairways and greens, my golfer’s skill level, the strength of his opponents, the ball’s position in the grass. If he selects a 7-iron from his bag and I know it oughta be an 8, I pipe up. If he turns blood red after a poor shot, I remind him that the shot can’t be replayed, and prepare him for the next. If he’s been overswinging all day, I encourage him to relax. If he bitches about his coworker/playing partner/wife, I change the subject. If he's tense, I make fun of him until he laughs in spite of himself. If he’s sober and dull, I suggest drinks at the turnstand.

Once my golfer reaches the putting surface, I ditch the bag and sink to all fours to scout the subtle undulations of the green. After visualizing the path of the ball, I point to a twig, leaf, or indent in the ground and use that marker as a guide. “Hit it here, Bob,” I say, “and with 75% pace. We’re going downhill and downgrain. Your ball’s gonna take a sharp left eight inches from the cup.” Tips are made and lost on the putting greens. Those who read them with sagacity are handsomely rewarded.

Bandon caddies receive payment in cash, cash, cash. For stories about the idiotic things we do/did with all that cash, you’ll have to wait for Part II, which I’ll post early next week.

Happy Saturday!
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no work and all play makes mike a dull boy
no work and all play makes mike a dull boy
no work and all play makes mike a dull boy
no work and all play makes mike a dull boy
no work and all play makes mike a dull boy
no work and all play makes mike a dull boy
no work and all play makes mike a dull boy
no work and all play makes mike a dull boy
no work and all play makes mike a dull boy
no work and all play makes mike a dull boy
no work and all play makes mike a dull boy
no work and all play mak

joaquin, i'm in your corner

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Been on a comedy kick of late.

It all started last week with Joaquin Phoenix’s appearance on the Letterman show, which was either--take your pick--a masterful, Kaufmanesque performance art piece or a very public cry for help. You’ve probably all seen the clip, but I’ll post anyway for those who missed it:



No one seems entirely certain whether Phoenix was putting us on or not, though the fact that he granted a lucid, coherent interview to CinemaBlend.com in the a.m. of that same day points to the former. I’m convinced Late Show Phoenix knew exactly what he was doing, an opinion further bolstered by my discovery of the documentary-in-progress about Phoenix’s curious transition from film to rap music. (Director: Casey Affleck.)

Pieces begin to fall neatly into place. What better way for one to assure himself water cooler mention across vapid, tabloid-crazy America than a barbitural meltdown on national television? Those eleven awkward, sweating minutes oughta generate swell publicity for his forthcoming doc(mock?)umentary and rap album, don’t you think? Joaquin, I applaud you...and that ain't sarcasm. You done well.

Whether you believed it to be a calculated gag or a frightening reflection of his inner state, Phoenix’s interview recalled the antics of deceased funnyman/performance artist Andy Kaufman (pictured).

Kaufman was essentially an anti-comic; many of his stunts baffled and/or irritated audiences, not to mention challenged their very notions of the nature and definition of comedy. He was enigmatic, to say the least. Kaufman didn't even consider himself a comedian, though I’d argue a man that funny doesn’t have a say in the matter. He wasn't a joke teller, sure, but then are jokes a prerequisite? Let's split a few hairs here. If we're to put any stock into, say, Merriam-Webster's definition (comedian: noun 2: a comical individual; specifically: a professional entertainer who uses any of various physical or verbal means to be amusing), Kaufman misdiagnosed himself. The man was a comedian, actor, artist and entertainer of the highest order.

He once curled up in a sleeping bag onstage and took a nap before a puzzled (and, one would assume, pissed) audience, which calls to mind composer John Cage's 4'33" (1952), a four minute and thirty-three second exercise in silence. In both instances, the real "performance" comes from the audience as they respond (with murmurs, throat-clearing and the like) to this vexing absence of sound and movement.

Then there’s the time Kaufman folded back the cover of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby and began reading aloud from page one. Understandably peeved, the crowd heckled and booed and yawned and probably muttered things like “Aw geez, c’mon!” before Kaufman finally--after a few bloated, interminable minutes--paused his reading and offered up an ultimatum. “It’s either this or I’ll play a record for you. What’ll it be?” (Not an exact quote.) They chose the record, of course, which ended up being a recording of Kaufman reading The Great Gatsby.

[ed. 2/19: I don't mean to suggest that Kaufman was reviled by all who witnessed his act. Quite the contrary. He no doubt had his dissenters (you either "get" the sleeping bag bit, or you don't), but I'd imagine the majority of his audience appreciated his aesthetic, even if it sometimes took them a few moments to understand his particular brand of humor. Comedy that progressive is bound to discourage a few traditionalists. A parallel example from the music world might be Miles Davis' Bitches Brew (1969), the first true jazz/rock "fusion" album, which was generally hated on by conservative listeners but embraced by those eager for a new, enlivened jazz.]

Here's one of my favorite Kaufman sketches:



Lastly, I’ll leave you with an uncomfortable Norm MacDonald clip in which he plays on audience expectations during a Comedy Central Roast of Bob Saget. Something tells me Kaufman would have approved:

music update

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Here’s what I’ve been listening to of late:

1) Goat’s Head Soup by The Rolling Stones. (Released 1973.)

Unless you’re a rockophile who’s amassed most of the Stones’ recorded output, the only items you'll recognize from the track listing are “Doo Doo Doo Doo Doo (Heartbreaker)” and, of course, “Angie.” Midwestern deejays still spin the former on Twofer Tuesdays; you once put the latter on a mix tape for a girl at school while in the eighth grade.

Soup ain’t universally loved. The Stones snapped their own four-record winning streak (Beggars Banquet, Let It Bleed, Sticky Fingers, Exile On Main Street) by daring to release an album that wasn’t entirely perfect. Their cocks back in their pants after eight years of swagger [An aside: Speaking of cocks, you know that infamous crotch shot from the cover of Sticky Fingers (pictured)? The crotch in question belongs to one Joe Dallesandro, an underground film star from the 60s who cavorted about with Warhol and his plastic gang. Now he owns and runs a hotel in Los Angeles. I met the man, the cock, the legend back in the summer of ’06 while visiting my buddy Travis in West Hollywood. Lou Reed commemorated Joe “Little Joe” Dallesandro in “Walk On The Wild Side”, his ’72 radio staple: “…Little Joe never once gave it away/everybody had to pay and pay…”], Mick and Co. recorded a few inspired tracks and a few weightless ones and didn’t know what else to do so they stamped ‘em on bits of vinyl and sent them off to be tomatoed by critics.

Soup, though, is a better album than most critics/bloggers/snarky music nerds would probably lead you to believe. It’s not their OK Computer, to be fair, but then it’s also not their St. Anger. Not great enough to inspire breathless praise, nor lame enough to warrant derision. It just exists in that 18mm space on your shelf and doesn’t say a whole lot. (The album cover is pictured at left.)

I’d like to highlight a specific track. “100 Years Ago,” the second track on the record, is quite the grower. It starts out as a fairly harmless, fairly pretty number about something nice (I haven’t really listened to the lyrics). Then there’s a bitchin’ little teaser of a freakout, then a quiet, contemplative part where all the instruments die away and Mick warbles something about “lazy bones,” which is kind of strange and boring and seemingly anti-climactic. That’s ‘round the time you nod off into your dkeyboyarjklsdssads;;;l;llllllllllllll;.o but wait! When the 2:35 mark hits they scrap all the lazy bones nonsense and just rip your face open with a devastating jam that disrupts your equilibrium and sets the hairs on your arm up up up!

Listen for yourself:



2) Agaetis Byrjun by Sigur Ros. (Released 1999.)

Dear God, where has this album been all my life? Where has this BAND been all my life?

Oh, sure, I knew who they were. I’d heard 2005’s Takk and that swell song from Vanilla Sky (“Njosnavelin”), but their music didn’t stir enough in me to invite repeat listens. Then I gave Agaetis Byrjun a spin.

My iTunes tells me that “Flugufrelsarinn,” the fourth track, has played 51 times in the past week. Quite simply, it’s one of the most profound homages to sound I’ve ever heard. (Check out Jonsi's vocal from 2:05-2:15.)

Here’s “Flugufrelsarinn” (gesundheit!):



3) Moon Safari and soundtrack to The Virgin Suicides by Air. (Released 1998 and 1999, respectively.)

As usual, I was the last to know. Air? What the hell is this Air business? 1998!? How did I miss these guys back when they were relevant? Too busy plunking down dollars for Rush albums and Smashing Pumpkins B-Sides, probably.

Anyway, glad I found ‘em. Moon Safari has consumed my attentions for more than a few weeks. Ask my annoyed friends. (I haven’t shut up about it.)

Rather than bore you by trying to describe their sound (Elvis Costello: “Writing about music is like dancing about architecture.”), I’ll direct you straight to a clip. What you’re hearing is “La Femme D’Argent,” the first track from Moon Safari. What you’re seeing is San Francisco’s Market Street in 1905, one year before the great quake.

like, give me your money and stuff

I’ve mastered the art of coat checking.

"Pish posh," you say, "there's nothing to master! Chuck a numbered tag at 'em, snatch their garment. Hang the damn thing on a damn rack. How hard can it be?"

Well, you’ve obviously never worked a coat check where the employees are expressly disallowed the luxury of a tip jar. In such cases, one must devise new methods if he doesn't want to leave empty-handed.

Let’s rewind to a rainy day sample sale at Hermes, the Parisian fashion company. Two women and I were assigned coat check for the event, which proved a logistical disaster since some 1200 overly made-up blue hairs bum rushed the doors before lunch. Three employees in a claustrophobic coat check can’t possibly address a situation like that with any semblance of efficiency, ‘specially since these cowesses unloaded coat, handbag (I learned that “purse” ain’t the preferred nomenclature in these circles) and umbrella.

The Hermes people forebade tip jars, meaning we banked standard wage while waiting hand and foot on spoiled multi-millionaires. (To give you an idea of the spending habits of Hermes clientele, the average receipt total was $7K-$8K.)

Needless to say, I was livid.

Three hours into our first day, I stormed into the office of the woman responsible for our hiring and demanded that she request two additional temps--and additional storage racks--before tomorrow’s sale. “Listen,” I snapped, “you didn’t even provide enough hangers! We’ve run out of room for the handbags or purses or whatever the hell you call ‘em. Women are hollering at us for losing umbrella covers, gloves, etc., but what’re we supposed to do? We lack basic shelving. You’ve screwed us by running an understaffed event. On top of it all, no tips! Can we please set up a jar?” “No,” she said, anxious to get back to her $16 brie-and-veggie panini. “My apologies. It’s my superiors…”

So we hatched a plan. One of the girls pulled a dollar bill from her purse (er, handbag), folded it in threes. “Look,” she said, "carry one in your palm at all times. Make sure the bill protrudes over your index finger by a good inch. By the power of suggestion, we’ll make our tips anyway.”

Sure enough, our little stunt worked. We cashed.

Fast-forward to the present week:

Coat check on the Upper West. This time, I’m alone. No jar allowed. I employ the dollar-in-the-palm trick, which produ...

Screw it! I decide to shuck the rules and institute a tip jar. To protect myself, I place the jar (a transparent, plastic tub somewhat akin to tupperware) on the desk just inside the coatroom door, where it can be plainly seen by my patrons but discarded at a moment’s notice if any of the Bad Guys approach.

In a brilliant display of shameless author-dropping, I also place my copy of Ayn Rand’s Atlas Shrugged face-up on that same desk, inches away from the jar. Seeing as I happen to be at the N-Y Historical Society on this particular evening, I figure more than a few of these educated cats might note my chosen reading material and strike up a conversation about it. Sure enough, they do. This leads to more tips. One fella discusses Rand with me for a good 2-3 minutes and asks--with narrowed eyes--if I’m an Objectivist ("I am not," I reply, "though I don't demonize her philosophy as much as some of my friends") before tucking a fiver in my palm.

Another trick (well, not a trick, but a critical rule of thumb):

When receiving a tip, always, ALWAYS acknowledge it verbally with a gracious thank you, and then make a show of placing it in the jar with grand panache so those waiting in line can see what you’ve just been given. When a Joe observes the fella in front of him proffering a tip, 90-100% of the time you’ll receive the same from him.

That’s how I make the big bucks, baby! Keep these swell suggestions in mind if you ever lose your real, big-people job and find yourself behind a desk with a bunch of hangers.
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it's about time i grow a beard

Welp, it’s official:

I’m a hipster.

It all happened so quickly. One moment I’m loitering about in nondescript Nikes, ill-fitting pants and a lame button-down; the next, I’ve fought my way into a pair of skinny jeans, laced my Chucks (low-cut, black) and bused to Williamsburg, off to dance like a white person in a club that may or may not be spinning Hercules and Love Affair. As things stand at present, I’m whiplashed, disoriented, demoralized. I’ve joined the enemy.

This coming from a fella who’s spent the better part of two years making fun of hipsters for their superfluous ornamentations, insular music snobbery and humorous attempts to eternize their half-realized “artsy” and “esoteric” aesthetic! Let’s face it: Hipsters, when you get right down to it, are kind of clownish. In the same way many punks identify as such by adopting the uniform (leather, safety pins, mod boots, angular haircut, etc.), so, too, hipsters tend to flaunt their hipsterdom by treating life like a macro game of Dress Up whilst steadfastly adhering to all the unwritten hipster behavioral rules (i.e. swilling PBR from a can, frequenting thrift stores, liking Animal Collective, etc.).

That--the shameless perpetuation of a stereotype--has always been my main beef with hipster culture. Why would anybody wish to subscribe so fully to a well-demarcated clique? If you’ve just paid $6 for a pair of thick-rimmed sunglasses with neon orange arms or whatever the hell you call the part that wraps around your ear, originality ain’t one of your predilections.

Ditch the trucker hat, I say, and develop your own look! Consciously eschewing the established stylings of your demograph is more punk/hipster/arty than any tried-and-true hipster outfit you might scare up. (“Hipster outfit,” of course, is a liquid concept that ain't at all definable; I realize I'm firing Nerf arrows here.) Adopting semi-funny, wholly ironic digs does not a hip cat make. Pairing multi-coloured (always preferred the British spelling) scarf, fedora and checkerboard shoe does not a hip cat make. What it makes you, friend, is a clone.

A real badass (admittedly, I am not said badass) would make like George Costanza and drape themselves in velvet, head-to-toe. In my eyes, that would be infinitely more hip (adj. 1. Keenly aware of or knowledgeable about the latest trends or developments) than anything going on on Bedford right now, since you'd be subverting expectations and offering a progressive take on that scene.

Enough about that. I'm talking out of my ass.

Despite my seeming aversion to the lifestyle, this weekend I took the hipster plunge. For proof, check out my activities from those 70-odd hours:

1) Did not leave Brooklyn. Divided my time between Crown Heights, Williamsburg (a hipster’s natural habitat) and Greenpoint.
2) Wore my Chucks out on both Friday and Saturday night.
3) Purchased the aforementioned skinny jeans (yep, hipster staple) at a thrift store for sixteen dollars and ninety-five cents.
4) Drank copious amounts of PBR.
5) Attended a Dan Deacon concert. (Not liking Deacon, by the way, predicates certain exile in hipster circles). I happen to like Dan Deacon. Dan Deacon is A-1.
6) Attended a rad dance party in Williamsburg.
7) To be clear: I attended a DAN DEACON concert (if you’re wondering who Dan Deacon is, please reference Wikipedia, an online encyclopedia that is entirely 100% factual) in skinny jeans and Chuck Taylors with PBR in hand. Dear God, what have I done?!

(long pause)

Erm. But wait…I’m not really a hipster. (Not that it matters one way or the other, of course. This blog has devolved into a childish wordplay exercise. Press on, Mike. Press on...) The more I consider, the more I realize the math don’t jive. I’m A) not living off my parents, B) would not consider myself an apathetic person, C) am not an indie music nerd (though I certainly appreciate some “hipster” bands), D) do not imbibe coffee or puff from hand-rolled cigarettes, and E) keep my keys in my pocket, not on a carabiner hooked to my belt loop. Oh, and I’m F) completely indifferent to Cat Power and TV On The Radio.

Looking back at the drivel I just spilled on this page, I’m taken by my own hypocrisy. In the last hour, I’ve G) claimed to be a hipster, H) bashed hipsters for not developing a fresh look (while I sit in Nikes, boring pants and a standard shirt), I) fallen prey to semantics by obsessing over the term “hipster” as if it’s a static designation that means anything, J) made a number of bad lists involving seemingly random lettering and numbering systems, and K) then, incredulously, upended the original premise of the blog by concluding that I’m actually NOT a hipster.

Now’s the point in the blog where I contemplate scrapping the last hour of work entirely and moving on to a fresh topic that ain’t so rife with inaccuracies and misdirected accusations. I've gone and painted myself a fool. (And, ironically, managed to lose--badly--an argument with myself.)

(long, long pause)

Screw it, I’m publishing it. My apologies for wasting your time.
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