A ShavedGolf Farewell

The creative process is time consuming and the rewards for production are often minimal. Creativity and creation are commonly rewarded best through personal satisfaction - this satisfaction comes from the knowledge that your creation is beautiful, masterfully crafted and is bringing joy or usefulness to the world.

I no longer feel that personal satisfaction from my blog.

The creative process behind blogging is no less demanding of time. Blogging requires a tremendous amount of effort, dedication and passion. Because my passion has waned, the product has suffered. Because the product has suffered, I feel less satisfaction. Because I feel less satisfaction, the last thread of reward for my efforts is a laugh from coworkers or a Facebook like from friends.

I've decided these nods of approval are an insufficient reward and do not justify continuation of a tired blog.

As I mentioned, I believe the lack of passion impacts the product. The content I produce on a weekly basis feels rushed and I consistently find myself publishing for the sake of claiming I did so on a Wednesday. The passion is gone and the result feels like half-assed entries that barely limp across the finish line.

Time is precious. With my schedule packed and responsibilities ever increasing it has become apparent that something must give. There are so many other creative avenues to explore. Art projects. Short stories. Fiction writing. Novels. Programming. There are so many personal accomplishments left to achieve. Volunteer opportunities. Relationship development. Athletic endeavors such as a marathon or an Ironman Triathlon. Career aspirations. Home ownership. Starting a family.

The blog aids none of these goals and manages to hinder most of them.

At the point where I find the blog to be a roadblock. At the point where I find the process no longer bringing joy and instead becomes a chore. At the point where the content feels like forced dribble. At the point where I could be spending my time on so many other wonderful endeavors. At the point where I pour myself into a project to receive nothing in return. Well that's the point where the project must end. And obviously I find myself at that point.

Perhaps this isn't an end, but rather a new beginning. When a topic stirs passion, given enough time, perhaps a polished post will grace the page once again. But don't expect it and don't come looking for it. I'll come to you.

I've spoken of the blog's demise once before, written a farewell and fooled many people. This time it's with a heavier heart and no hidden gotcha. The end has come. Thanks for being my audience over the last 85 weeks. Your praise always meant so much. Thank you.

The End
xoxo,
ShavedGolf

Cuckold by Cuff Hole

I went to work wearing a nice dress shirt. Neigh, an awesome dress shirt. It's name brand, so you know I paid for it. A beautiful light blue color with the traditional white buttons. The shirt is non-iron so it never wrinkles. The collar points are kept sharp with the shirt's original collar stays. The shirt is crisp, clean and makes me look stellar...

...or at least it did.

At about 3:00 PM this afternoon I was admiring myself in the mirror when I discovered a massive coffee stain dead center of my awesome shirt. Knowing that I hadn't sipped coffee since the early morning hours hurt the most. Here I was walking around the office, strutting my shit, and just generally acting like a bad ass and all the while I had a giant stain on the front of my shirt.

I looked like a goob. I looked like a complete goob and my coworkers didn't have the heart to say anything to me.

*sigh*
Oh well. The shirt can be washed.

I completed my mirror check and moved to roll up my sleeves when...oh...oh gods, no! A hole. This beautiful blue dress shirt has a hole! It's not a big one, but right there in the cuff, a hole.

No longer an "oh well" moment. Holes can't be washed out. This shirt is destined for the dumpster.

But the cuff hole conundrum got me thinking how many of my garments reach the holiness level. Don't get me wrong...I appreciate fresh threads and believe the clothes can make the man. However, it seems I lack understanding of garment life expectancy.

When I purchase an awesome article of clothing, in my mind, it's awesome FOREVER. Those shorts were $40? Good for seven years. A $10 pair of boxers? Good for a decade. Jeans for $50? They'll last until I outgrow them.

But this cuff hole has me realizing that my standards may not be that of everyone else. I realize the shorts I bought seven years ago are ragged and frayed. I realize the boxers my mom purchased during Back-To-School season 2002 have holes and barely pass as a loin cloth. I realize the denim bought who-knows-when makes me look homeless.

But you know why this doesn't matter? Because I feel like a bad ass in these clothes. All of them. All the clothes I keep. As long as I'm strutting my shit and generally acting like a bad ass, I'll get shit done and be the guy I want to be. Clothes do make the man, so long as the man is comfortable in his clothes. The moment attention is brought to my gooberish appearance, I lose that confidence, that swagger, that charisma. Once I quit strutting the article of clothing has outlived its welcome in my wardrobe.

So, friends, what I ask of you is simple. Please, if you catch a stain on my shirt, a hole in my pants, or any visible fraying threads, don't tell me. No fashion critiquing. No mocking. I don't want to know. Because the minute I'm aware is the instant that I start caring and becomes the moment I'm slightly less awesome.

I don't need a new, blue dress shirt...I need less cuff hole.

xoxo,
ShavedGolf

Welcome Back, Old Friend

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!

That's the sound of every man in America sitting his ass down on the couch, cracking a beer and turning on the tube to watch the NFL get underway. Yes, it's that time of year again. The NFL regular season has officially started with tonight's match between the Dallas Cowboys and New York Giants.

So it's time to frost your beer steins, warm up the grill and invite your fellow fans over for rockin' Sunday couch parties from now through December.

Yeah. Starting this Sunday, and for the following sixteen Sundays, the friends come over carrying their favorite potluck dish, the best six pack and their laptops.

The snack table is epic. A plate of buffalo wings. Some roasted weenies in bbq sauce. Thick, wet coleslaw. Guacamole. Cheese and crackers. Bagel Bites. The Taco Bell twelve taco box. Chili.

The fridge comes fully loaded with house beer and is stocked up with guest six packs as they arrive.

The football amigos hang out on the couch all day. We watch the games that matter and even the ones that don't. Hang on every play. Trash talk during commercial breaks. Critique the players' performance, the announcer's dictation and the commentator's analysis. Everyone brings over their laptop to keep tabs on their fantasy players. Women are invited but not encouraged to attend.

...or at least that's how it goes down in my head.

In the end, NFL Sundays become nothing more than a lazy day in my underwear. The friends don't come over. There's no snack table. Maybe some Taco Bell. The fridge is stocked with whatever hodgepodge leftover beer remains from Friday and Saturday night. Plays are missed in lieu of snoozing, scratching or picking at toenails. Commercials are a time for a new beer, a tasty snack, or a Sunday morning shit. Players are mocked. Announcers are mocked. Commentators are mocked. The laptop is ferried between the coffee table, the kitchen table and the porcelain thrown to keep tabs on the fantasy team. Women are invited and encouraged to attend, but rarely seen or heard from after doing so.

The reality sounds cold and harsh, but truthfully, it's not. Football season for me is really synonymous with lethargy and procrastination, but I enjoy the hell out of it. For seventeen regular season Sundays and for all the playoff Sundays that follow, I get to flip on the television and enjoy American athleticism at it's best. I get to marvel at the players. And most importantly, I get a free pass to do nothing.

For those who aren't fans and don't get it, NFL Sundays are akin to your addictive reality television or your Law & Order marathons. You so badly want to turn it off. You desperately want to be productive. Yet something holds you to the couch and keeps your eyes fixated on the TV. Sunday after Sunday, for seventeen Sundays of regular season and four weekends of playoffs, it's the same routine.

What is idealized as a golden opportunity to fraternize with my fellow fans is little more than a lazy Sunday. That's OK. I like it that way.

Welcome back, old friend.

xoxo,
ShavedGolf