Monday Meanders

This particular Monday I am on a plane, headed for Chicago.  From Phoenix.

Yesterday, while driving to Phoenix from Amarillo (try it sometime.  It's a Drive.  *Notice the capital D*) I blew tire on Interstate 40 at the 234 mile marker in New Mexico.

Get out your maps, boys and girls, and find the 234 mile marker in New Mexico.  Notice the lack of any living thing within 100 miles.   Oh, I'm sorry.  On many of your maps, that's labelled "Wilderness".  Well,  anyway.

I lost 3 hours of driving time futzing around with AAA, and rental car exchange at Hertz in Albuquerque (and you thought I couldn't spell) and trying to find a gas station near the airport in Albuquerque so I wouldn't have to pay $9.00 a gallon to have Hertz fill the tank.

The day before yesterday (Saturday) I drove from Columbia, MO to Amarillo, TX without incident and in good time - I WAS making good time yesterday until that f*(!er named Murphy decided to through some shit in the game.  One of these days, Murphy ...

Tiger got jobbed.  And I'm sorry, but fans at home don't call balls and strikes, and fans at home don't assist the refs with False Starts and holding calls - why on EARTH would professional golf allow fans, FANS AT HOME WHO CALL IN, to affect the course of play.  There are Marshalls on the course.  There are rules officials everywhere.  And then, of course, there's the players themselves, who will often call penalty strokes on themselves when they realize they've done something wrong.  If somebody misses something - then so be it.  Just because the camera catches it doesn't mean anyone outside the ropes has the right to call someone on the course out for a foul.  That just doesn't work.

Ndinombethe.