Greatness Courts Failure

Yeah, yeah, I know. Take it easy there a minute. They didn’t have a 16 times platinum album because they sucked (1994’s Cracked Rear View). And their so-called sophomore slump, Fairweather Johnson? Four-times platinum. The Hootie backlash was just typical American consumer, knee-jerk jealousy. We root for the underdog but just can’t wait to take down the mighty. Maybe they became too successful too fast and radio stations overplayed their hits but the tunes were catchy, well crafted sing-alongs with only good intentions. Good, honest, adult contemporary, light rock. Heck, we’re not ashamed to crank the Hootie and chill out with a cold Schlitz on the nearly completed deck here at GCF.

And, it’s good intentions that Hootie and the Blowfish continue to exhibit even today. They turned out a few more solid albums which stayed true to their sound (they have officially stopped recording and touring so Darius Rucker could pursue his solo career). But today, they mostly dedicate their time and tunes to extensive charity work ­– most notably, and of concern to us here at GCF, is their annual Monday After the Masters Celebrity Pro-Am Golf Tournament. The tournament benefits numerous local and national golf and education charities and their own charitable foundation. It’s one of the top charity golf events in the country and raises nearly $500,000 a year. And, in case you enjoy the obvious, it falls on the Monday following the Masters.

There’s no denying the guys love golf. They’re all decent players and low handicappers and they’re from South Carolina (second only to Florida as a golfing mecca) where the courses are plentiful, beautiful, and challenging and the weather allows play thirteen months out of the year. (Heck, we love South Carolina so much it’s even home to the clandestine world headquarters of Greatness Courts Failure!) Mark Bryan, Hootie’s guitarist, even has a show on the Golf Channel, Road Trip: Myrtle Beach, where he travels to courses in and around Myrtle Beach with Josh Kelley, another singer/songwriter, Charley Rymer and Perry Swenson. They play challenges, sample the local food, and close the show with a song or two. Good, honest entertainment – just like Hootie and the Blowfish. Give them another try. I know you own the album, everybody does. If it makes you feel better, you can just play it in the truck by yourself. But don’t think I won’t see you singing along and no, I won’t hold your hand.

Consider the chicken wing. I know, they’re freakin’ everywhere now with untold numbers of restaurant chains devoted to flavoring them one-hundred ways to Sunday. I bet they even breed the damn chickens these days purely for their wing size. A whole warehouse full of birds with ginormous wings looking like anemic 12 year-olds with Arnold Schwarzenegger arms. But, before the mid 1980’s, chicken wings were tossed aside or sold for mere pennies a pound, useless as the neck and backbone (unless you made your own chicken stock). However, there was money to made in wings after some fellows in Buffalo hit upon a brilliant idea. One of the first restaurants in the Southeast to take advantage of this overlooked delicacy (I know, it’s a stretch) and homogenize America with yet another franchise was Hooters.

Now, I’ve had better chicken wings than Hooters serves but there’s one thing they offer that none of the other wing restaurants have. It’s the one reason we frequently stop by for a post-round bite and a few beers, or just a few more beers and the PGA on the big screen – it’s their support of the NGA Hooter’s Tour! Wait, you thought maybe it was the friendly, attentive, attractive, and most importantly, barely clothed waitresses (no, they don’t hire waiters)? Heck no! As dedicated golfers and golf fans, we support those who support golf!

And that’s the lie we tell our significant other every month as she (or he – we ain’t sexist or homophobic – a golfer is a golfer and equal and mere mortal in the eyes of the golf gods) tallies up the receipts, frowns at the excessive tips, and pays the credit card bill with nary a word. So what’s another night on the couch? You go to sleep to the warm, enveloping glow of the Golf Channel with a fuzzy feeling in your heart for helping support a great American institution that encourages and provides exposure to struggling young golfers looking for that big break. You’re a freakin’ saint.

Snobwood Country Club coats and soothes their club house with coma inducing new age music, robbing golfers of strength and desire. It can even put the kibosh on your romantic aspirations. Hell, some quiet nights it seems to crawl across the course and finds its way onto our still uncompleted deck here at GCF’s clandestine world headquarters. It’s so insidious, the low frequency background noise can even drown out the soothing sounds of the bug zapper.

So thank the gods we don’t golf at Snobwood, no matter how pretty the cart girls are nor how well tended the track. We’ve got our standards – low they may be. We’ve also got truck payments, mortgages and high interest loans from strip club owners to contend with so fat chance we’re teeing it up there short of an invitation, tournament, or late night drunken trespassing. But that’s damn fine with us. Why? ‘Cause we don’t want to hear their John Tesh, Enya or Yanni, that’s why. We like the rock, the roll and the country. We want an adrenaline rush, our pistons firing to the beat, our endorphins in overdrive. And when we’re done playing, when the muni has beaten us to a pulp and our game, or lack thereof, has let us down once more, it’s off to the 19th hole for some cold, sudsy comfort and the blues.

Yes, the blues. Oh sure, you’re happy as a pig in shit about that birdie on 12 but look at your scorecard. One birdie does not a tour exemption make. I know, sorry to bring you down but the truth hurts. The blues, my friend, the blues delivers the truth. Your lover left you, the man’s coming down hard on you – this is life. Life’s a three putt. Life is full of shanks. So what do you do about it? You tell the bartender to tee up some Elmore James, Buddy Guy, or Muddy Waters – whatever he’s got. You’ve got some drinking to do my friend, some drinking and reminiscing. Order another round and remember that heartbreaker on 18 that left you $20 shy for the week. You’re gonna need the blues for your blues.

Recommendations

Elmore James – The Sky Is Crying: The History of Elmore James
Albert King – Born Under a Bad Sign
John Lee Hooker – Endless BoogieStevie Ray Vaughn – Texas Flood
Buddy Guy – Stone Crazy!
Muddy Waterd – Hoochie Coochie Man: Complete Chess Masters, Vol. 2: 1952-1958

It’s our ultimate destination and our Waterloo. The green – that smooth surface that tells your ball it will soon be home.  You try and make it in regulation, you get up and down on it, you fly through it, you roll off of it, and it’s just so damn pretty and inviting and so freakin’ large you don’t know how you could have missed it. It’s called the carpet, the dance floor, downtown. It’s got valleys, jaws, and elephant burial grounds. It snakes and waggles. You yank on it, you four-jack on it, you let it slide, you leave it in the grips or roll it too long to a watery grave. Sometimes getting there is like sex with your sister, you did the deed but not proud about how you got there. Or you pulled an O.J. Simpson - you somehow got away with it even though it was a Salman Rushdie, an impossible read. Golf’s a colorful sport with colorful slang but the only color we care about is green.

The Bhagvad Gita, or the Song of the Divine One, is an epic Hindu text of verse, told in chant form, of a conversation between Krishna, the Divine One, and Arjuna. Arjuna, a prince and warrior, is a conflicted soul, uncertain of his place in life, his duties and his responsibilities. Krishna, whose identity is kept from Arjuna through most of the story, gives Arjuna philosophical direction and his life meaning and purpose through the use of tales, allegories, and analogies. Upon enlightenment, Krishna ultimately reveals his divinity as a blessing to Arjuna.

You thought we were talking about that 2000 Robert Redford golf film with Matt Damon, Will Smith and the insanely beautiful Charlize Theron? We are! Every now and then Hollywood tries to sneak a little culture by us without our knowing it. Most of the time this is done through the adaptation of novels since Hollywood, like Jim Nance, is totally devoid of originality and soul. The Legend of Bagger Vance is no exception. The movie is based on the novel of the same name by Steven Pressfield.

So what was the deal with all the mystical mumbo-jumbo? The novel The Legend of Bagger Vance parallels the Bhagvad Gita, noted mostly by the enlightenment of Rannulph Junuh (R. Junuh = Arjuna) through the teachings of Bagger Vance (Bagger Vance = Bhagvad or Bhagvan). The movie keeps the names and keeps the enlightenment but as with most Hollywood crap, throws out the other stuff because they pretty much think Americans are stupid. And, we won’t even go into having Will Smith play Bagger Vance, further enforcing Hollywood’s either white guilt or veiled racism with the use of the magical negro to once again save the troubled white man.

All of this in a freaking golf movie! As for the golf, I enjoyed Bruce McGill as Walter Hagen. McGill is a fantastic, longtime character actor who most of you know as D-Day in Animal House. He brought some levity to this otherwise ponderous movie. Joel Gretsch was a reasonably passable Bobby Jones, a mystic figure in his own right. Will Smith did his best James Baskett (Uncle Remus in Song of the South) while J. Michael Moncrief annoyed as the young caddy Hardy Greaves, who narrates the story from the present day. Charlize Theron was illuminating, as only she could be. Redford should have just kept the camera on her for two-plus hours. As for Matt Damon? I think he was better in Team America: World Police.

We’ll have to rate this one a single golf ball, rescued from the shag bag by the historic look at golf and McGill’s and Gretsch’s performances as two of golf’s greatest players.