Google Now is an app that automatically displays certain useful information when you launch Google on your phone or other mobile device. Exactly what it displays depends on a number of factors: your current location, data you've provided to other Google services, and subjects that you've asked the app to follow for you, such as professional golf. It knows where my house is, because I've entered my home address on Google Maps, and it knows I'm interested in the results of certain post-season baseball games, because I've looked them up, and when I'm traveling it suggests nearby activities. It still has a few bugs, though. For example, it thinks I "work" at my golf club -- presumably because when I leave my house each day that's the place I'm the most likely to go. Come on, Google! You sound like my wife!
Last Sunday, we had our first frost delay of the year. Reese, whose turn it was to bring lunch, also brought two bags of apple-cider donuts and a bottle of Jagermeister, the traditional cold-weather intoxicant of the Sunday Morning Group. The bottle made a handy weather gauge, because it was as frosty as the greens.
While we waited for the bottle to clear, we putted on the floor of the golf shop, which, unlike the clubhouse, is sort of heated. Addison jammed a red plastic beer cup between two golf bags full of demos, and we aimed for that.
Our golf shop closes for the year at the end of the month, and if you have golf-shop credit you have to spend it before then. Now is a good time to do that, because everything is on sale.
Stanley wears size-thirteen-and-a-half shoes. The biggest ones Corey had in stock were thirteens, but Stanley almost bought them, because he figured he could stretch them. Then he came to his senses. Meanwhile, Gary, our terrific superintendent, was mowing the practice green, which had finally melted -- almost time to tee off:
Something we always have trouble with on Sunday mornings is getting an accurate head count. Some guys hang out on the practice green, where they're hard to see from the first tee, and some guys disappear into the bathroom in the clubhouse, and some guys hold putting contests in the golf shop, and nobody stands still. On Sunday, though, I had a eureka moment: instead of counting people, count bags:
It took me almost twenty years to think of that.