Augusta, Georgia. The Masters. It makes golfer hearts flutter. I got to experience a bit of it first hand yesterday. Thousands of wizened country club couples. A few hundred redneck. Way too expensive for the typical redneck holiday, although I saw a "Kentucky Waterfall" hairstyle that would do any rural West Virginian with more than two decaying trucks in the yard proud.
Tiger from a distance, putting out his last practice hole. Hugging O'Meara, his practice partner. Thankfully, I didn't see any tongue there. It has been a while for the big cat.
White belts. The Asians and the young Europeans love them. Nick Faldo, not so much.
The players kids caddying the Par 3 tourney. Scott Verplanck's little, little girl loving being with her daddy.
Hundreds or thousand of the merely wealthy looking with avarice to the OTHER side of the ropes, to keep the billionaires and old time Augusta National members away from the filthy mere-yonaires.
An amazing golf course.
$1.50 sandwiches and $1.00 drinks.
A "pro shop" selling Masters memorabilia so fast it would give Sam Walton a hard-on.
A newly slim John Daly and his "woman" in print shorts parked in the jewelery store parking lot across from the entrance selling John Daly "memorabilia" from his swanky RV. I asked if he would autograph a baggie of crystal meth, "A real Daly high!", but he was all out.