Fork China

Who needs the Olympics when there's golf?

It's sexy . . .

Drama-filled . . .

Fabulously fashionable . . .

And Troll's cousin Boo Weekly is currently ahead of Phil Mickelson going in to today.

Go, Boo!

Twenty Twenty Twenty Four Hours to Go

And I don't want to be sedated. I DO want to eat a bunch of carbs and surf the sofa, though. Which is exactly what I will do, stuck here in between my love and my agony.

When the Going Gets Tough . . .

. . . Some folks do drugs or drink. Over eat. Have inappropriate sex with strangers in Eastern European train stations.

Moi? I help out the economy.

Two recent purchases.

Numero Uno:

Normally, I am not a sweater. In fact, so little do I sweat regardless of exertion level or outside temperature, I'm sure I would be considered a genetic freak by any number of scientists who study these things. But it's been one hell of a rainy summer, with moisture hanging thick as snot in the air, and so I now schwitz copiously whenever I venture outside. Run a few miles or hit a bucket of balls, the result is the same. Yew. So I figure, this will keep the sweat out of my eyes for my race this weekend. And, I think it looks kinda über cool.

Two:

Remember how everyone in the universe thinks one of our fifty is missing? Well, the advantage to THAT is that I got away Scot Free in the Duty Free, scoring both some deeply discounted Clinique SPF 15 gloss and one of my fave perfumes of all time. I love, love, love, this cherry pie meets Bulgarian rose meets vanilla and musk perfume. It's deeeeeeeelightful, but, alas, MIA in this part o' the country.

"Gracias, Señorita" is what the sales girl said after handing me my shiny new purchases. Oh, no. Thank you. And your obvious lack of geographical savvy.

Mute Monday: Power

No one changes the world who isn't obsessed.
– Billie Jean King

The Mountains and Moi

"It isn't the mountains ahead to climb that wear you out; it's the pebble in your shoe." – Muhammad Ali

Usually, come right about now, my young girl's fancy turns to the latest collection of spring footwear and flirty skirts. But the IRS is holding Da Shoe Fund hostage, so instead, I am thinking of mountains.

Specifically:


1. Where hopefully in another few months, lottery willing, I will once again run a gloriously crap time in the 43rd Annual La Luz Trail Run.

And:


2. Which should be fully clear of snow by, oh, July, giving us a small window of opportunity to hike it before the monsoon season starts in preparation for the possibility of:



3. Which isn't Everest. No, it's better. It's Africa.

Lady Madonna, Running Shoes on Your Feet

Today is the day when thousands of folks throughout New Mexico and the Four Corners region hit the roads to walk to El Santuario de Chimayo, a tiny shrine in northern New Mexico, halfway between Santa Fe and Taos. They start their journey – many of them carrying crosses and photos of loved ones – in the dark hours right before dawn on Good Friday, and by Easter Sunday, arrive in Chimayo to join what can be up to 10,000 worshippers that pass through the doors of this 200-year-old chapel. Considered the "Lourdes of America," Chimayo represents to the faithful not only a place of worship and prayer, but also of healing, as exemplified by the "miraculous" crucifix of Our Lord of Esquipulas and of the sacred earth inside the El Posito, under which the crucifx was discovered.

A note left inside the chapel from a visitor from Las Cruces, New Mexico, reads: "If you are a stranger, If you are weary from the struggles in life, Whether you have a handicap, Whether you have a broken heart, Follow the long mountain road, Find a home in Chimayo."

Or, if you're like Sister Madonna Buder, you just keep on going.

Over the past twenty-six years, this 76-year-old Catholic nun has competed in 37 marathons, 300 triathlons, and 33 Ironman Triathlons. At age 75, she became the oldest woman to finish the Kailua-Kona Ironman World Championship. She did it again a year later.

Like many pilgrims to Chimayo have done, she started her journey as a way to seek healing for a family crisis – her brother, she discovered, was battling alcoholism. Sister Madonna says she made a deal with God, offering her suffering in training for and running her first-ever race (Spokane's Lilac Bloomsday 12K) in exchange for the grace her brother would need to stop drinking.

Every race since then, she's raced for a cause, whether public – like the thousands of dollars she's raised for Multiple Sclerosis – or personal and private – like the Ironman she ran in the name of a dear friend battling cancer.

Which just goes to show you, you can either believe in miracles, or you can go out there and make your own.

What's in a Game

I'm feeling a little blue this morning.

Yes, LSU won the national college football championship last night (quite handily, it turns out). Yes, the game was an occasion to forgo a regular sit down supper and instead stuff ourselves silly in front of the T.V. with chile con queso, pork sandwiches, chocolate cake, and beer. Yes, every point scored caused such merriment in S.B., he actually sprung out of his chair to do an energized happy dance around the living room. Causing me to giggle and ponder why it is we never actually go out dancing. Man's got some kind of funky rhythm. Then again, maybe that's just Moi.

But as elation-making as last night's game was, it also portends something bittersweet: the end of football season and, hence, the long, slow slide into a late winter/early spring bereft of any kind of celebratory event or holiday. Okay, so there's the Stupor Bowl. But let's face it, I'm not really a fan of professional football, the Saints and Patriots excepted. Sure, it's nice to stare at some firm buns and chiseled forearms, but after a few minutes of that, I pull out the laptop and start cruising eBay.

As for holidays, talk about barren. President's Day? Yeah, right. Moi, celebrate the birth of a politician? Fuggedaboutit. Valentine's Day? Meh. S.B. is usually out of town for the event and despite my addiction to all things purdy, I've never been much of a fan, although I adore the flowers. Easter? I haven't celebrated since my mother died.

And we won't even talk about the weather. Spring in New Mexico is fickle to say the least. One day you're being seared by the sun and 80 degree temps, the next a foot of snow blankets your budding buddleia.

Obviously, this is a time when I get in a lot of reading and baking.

Oh, and one more thing. Guess what time it also is? Time to fret over whether or not I get picked in the lottery for La Luz. Remember La Luz? From now until May, it's white knuckle time. 'Cause I'm determined to hit a 2:30 this year. IF I get in.

And ever get off this sofa . . .

Happy Heart

Look at the fabulous CD cover the fabulously talented She made Moi for Christmas! I'm posting it up here because it just tickles Moi pink, it's so brilliant.

It will also serve as the place marker for my last post for a few days. But if all goes well, if Southwest Airlines arrives in New Orleans in a relatively timely manner, if Baby Jesus blesses us with an up and running Daiquiri Shack, and if we can likewise grab 'n' go us a couple oyster po' boys, in exactly 50 hours, ten minutes, and some odd seconds, I should be feeling groovy enough to send you my next post from the wilds of the South Louisiana suburbs. Louisiana, Party People. It does a Moi's heart (and stomach) good.

Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, and Blessed Solstice to you all!

* * *

P.S.: The Pirate just tagged Moi. And I feel a strange compulsion to obey. Perhaps it's because she gets up at 5:00 every morning to swim and I don't (in fact, I'm coming up with some pretty darn good excuses why I don't even want to go running on this gloriously sunshiny, snow-dappled day.)

So, to procrastinate further:

Five Interesting Things Involving the Number Five. About Moi:

1. Five is the number of the age I wish I could revert back to for one day each week. Because at five, you're not required to have a job – heck, you're not even required to be in school – and you're certainly not required to juggle any kind of grown up stuff like politics and hassles with plumbers. And Christmas is so lovely when you're five. It's just you and the presents. Nothing more, nothing less. Unless your parents forget to buy batteries for your new Malibu Barbie Sports Car. That kinda sucks, at five.

2. Five is the number of husbands Moi is afraid she's going to have to limit herself to, with S.B. being primary, of course. Because the list is simply getting too ungainly. As much as I'd like to include up and comers like Daniel Craig and Pablo Nutini, I'm afeared it's going to have to work thusly, for the sanity of all involved:

1. S.B.
2. Johnny Depp
3. Ewan McGregor
4. Jack White
5. Bruce Willis

3. Five is the number of shoes - excluding athletic footwear – I would like to limit myself to in the New Year, in an effort to take a more Zen approach to material goods: One pair of heeled brown boots. One pair of heeled black boots. One pair of low heeled, English riding-style boots. One pair of black patent leather peep toe pumps. One pair of brown leather flat sandals. One pair of espadrille-style sling back . . . Oh, hell, who am I kidding. Never mind.

4. On the other hand, five is the exact number of winter running pants folded neatly in Moi's closet. Not because I hate to do laundry (there's your Zen right there, Party People), but because do you KNOW how many winter running pants styles there are out there and if I just keep trying, ONE of them will make Moi's ass look just right.

5. Five is the number of movies I currently am chomping at the bit to go see in the theaters:

1. Sweeney Todd
2. The Golden Compass
3. Charlie Wilson's War (although it looks to Moi like Julia Roberts has been horribly miscast)
4. I Am Legend (Will Smith was hard in the running for husband #5, believe Moi)
5. Into the Wild (even though I simply cannot tolerate Sean Penn, but the soundtrack sounds marvelous and "Hard Sun" has been running on the iPod for ages)

(But not: Atonement. Christ on a Cracker am I the only person who hated that book?)

Oh, and I tag Meghan, because most likely all she has to do is take five fabulous photos.

Staring Down the Mountain

All the birds have flown up and gone;

A lonely cloud floats leisurely by.
We never tire of looking at each other -
Only the mountain and I.

– Li Po

I wasn't a total slug this weekend. On Sunday, my best friend E! and I crawled out from under our blankies, shook off our turkey induced brain fogs, and headed to the top of the Sandia Mountains to avail ourselves of the late week snow. She in her new Redfeathers, Moi in age-old Atlases, we found enough winter white wonder to play for a couple hours at the top of our world.

I love these mountains and am lucky beyond belief to have them at my back door. And to know that no matter where I am in the immediate area, they are always there – looming grandly if I'm west of them, sloping gently if I'm east. They tell my time, herald my season, measure my calm and my storm.

When I was a little girl, I found a fossil embedded in one of the rocks at the foothills – a small, intricate remnant of a long lost sea shell. That was because, my father explained, this part of New Mexico once lay at the bottom of a vast ocean. Which must explain why, whenever I'm up on top of the Sandia's, nearly three miles above what we call sea level today, I always feel like I'm swimming.

So, I'm curious: what outdoor places do you seek out when you want to feel a sense of wonder?

Fartleking Around

So, this is what I get for being lazy, for doing my interval workout on the treadmill instead of out in the fresh air where I belong.

While not technically road rash, it sure does look like it. And it hurts like it. I know 'cause I know from road rash. The outside of my left leg still bears the faintly mottled scar of my failed attempt to roller blade my booty into J-Lo shape about five years ago. So, you'd think running would be the absolute safest thing for Moi, right? I mean, how hard is it to put one foot in front of the other. Especially on the treadmill.

It's not entirely my fault, though.

Fergie's "London Bridge" is exceptionally useful for cranking up the speed to a bazillion miles an hour for an effective interval workout. Trouble is, I was too busy singing along with the Dutchess's lament about her shoes that I neglected to pay attention to where I was putting my own.

Anyway.

So I decided to treat this myself. Not so much because I hate doctors, but because it's such a trial just starting the process of going to one. Call the Primary Care Physician. Get an appointment in 5 bazillion light years. See the Primary Care Physician. Have her tsk tsk over my wound. Watch as she considers sending me to a specialist. Roll my eyes as she decides to. Get that appointment in another 5 bazillion light years. Then discover specialist does nothing but prescribe antibiotics and some burn cream. All of which I already have at home thanks to a first aid kit and Ivan, but for which I now have to pay the specialist 12 bazillion dollars.

So, after Googling "road rash treatment," I discovered that the prevailing treatment of choice is not to let the wound dry and then form a scab but instead to keep the injury as moist as possible and covered with a permeable type of bandage along the lines of Tegaderm. Which is like a piece of cellophane that goes over the wound and is meant to act like a scab for the 7-10 days it takes for the burn to heal itself. But according to box warning:


I see several things wrong here.

1. If all you have is a "minor wound," then it doesn't really need treatment, now does it? So the ten bazillion dollars I just spent on four Tegaderm patches? I may as well have flushed it down the toilette.

and:

2. How am I supposed to discern infection from plain ol' OUCH? After all, I fell down – hard! – onto a strip of rubber zooming along at the equivalent of a 6 minute mile. Of course my knee is red! Of course it itches! Of course it's slightly swollen! So I thought some of the yellow gunk that leaked outta there a few hours after putting on the Tegaderm patch was a sign of infection, but oh no. The instruction manual tells me this is perfectly "normal," but if in "doubt," go see a doctor. So I'm now supposed to be an expert on distinguishing one kind of puss from the other?

You gotta hand it to the medical profession. This is quite a racket they got going on. Since no one really knows what contributes to the body's healing process, it's just best you don't try to handle things yourself. Instead, to be safe, empty the shoe fund, and leave it to the professionals.

The British Open War on Golf

According to Wikipedia, which in my line of work is known as "research lite," or "yeah, riiiggght" but which often does in a pinch:

Golf is a very old game of which the exact origins are unclear. The origin of golf is open to debate as to being Chinese, Dutch or Scottish. However, the most accepted golf history theory is that this sport originated from Scotland in the 1100s.

Which makes absolute, perfect sense to Moi. Have you seen St. Andrews, et al? I mean, we American's, we pride ourselves on creating courses that kick your ass but look fabulous while doing so. Kind of like Angie Dickinson's Sgt. "Pepper" Anderson in Police Woman.

But the Scots? Ooooo hell no. Those aren't golf courses, those are battlefields – pock-marked and windswept, and laden with danger, the way they cling to the cliffs above angry seas and chemical spill-colored skies.

Even the spectators wear expressions of grim, institutional determination. So does Moi, as Tiger hangs behind yet another Latin firecracker. Tiger, get thee back to some sunshine and concentrate, would ya?

Recipe for Disaster

Why would pro wrestler Chris Benoit murder his wife, his son, and then kill himself?

Here's one theory, courtesy of S.B.:

Start with: one pro wrestler who becomes famous for extreme forms of behavior marginally recognized as a sport but which is really just dumb-ass spectacle for twelve years olds (literally and figuratively).

Add: a gradual addiction to the accompanying attention and fame.

Mix with: a raging addiction to steroids and perhaps a slight mental illness masked by the extreme forms of behavior demanded by the industry.

Blend in carefully: a viewing public with an average I.Q. below that of, say, a door mouse (no insult to the door mouse intended) who rewards increasingly extreme forms of behavior.

Fold in: career decline and the pressure of having to give up the spotlight in favor of the "real world."

Sprinkle with: the normal shit that happens to us all on an every day basis.

Bake: for 22 years in a 500 degree oven until the mixture bubbles over.

And there you have it: yet another titillating bit of "news" to keep our minds off what is really going on in this country, like, perhaps, the creeping beginnings of a nasty-ass inflationary period and, oh yeah, the Iraq war. Ho, hum.

A Wing, a Prayer, and Some Guy Named Mike

Of all the shoes in my closet, these are the one pair I cannot do without.



No, really. I'm not joking. These are my favorite shoes. Because while a great peep toe pump or sassy wedge will always make me feel like a million bucks, only my Brooks trail runners will make me feel like an athlete.

A difficult thing to do.

I was downright dismal at sport in school, boasting a shocking discordance between hand and eye, a stubborn inability to keep my mind on the game or my focus on the team. A junior high school coach had high hopes for my height and put me on the basketball team. Another thought I could be a gymnast. Another a dancer. My step father taught me to ski, a friend to swim. My efforts at all of these endeavors were tepid at best.

But there was one thing I could do and it was this: put one foot in front of the other and run. Not very quickly mind you, but I could do it for a long, long time.

These days I mostly run trails, which I find much more interesting and more challenging than road running. I also run trails because, and forgive me for using a well-worn analogy, it teaches me valuable lessons I can carry into the rest of life. And believe me, I need all the help I can get. Like:

1. You can forge new trails when the well worn path has been lost. If you don't mind a few goat heads clinging to your ankles.

2. While it's important to be on the alert for danger (is that thing slithering through the grass a rattler or a bull snake? just how fresh is that cougar print?) you shouldn't be so wobbly-willed that you miss the thrill of it, too.

3. It's best to maneuver around obstacles rather than try to go through them.

4. If you disconnect your body from your mind and your spirit, you're going to trip over your laces and it's going to hurt.

5. In running, there is no such thing as fat or thin, hippy or busty, short or tall, beautiful or homely. There is only running or standing still.

In addition to running mostly trails, I also run mostly alone and undocumented. In fact, it wasn't until just last year that I entered my first race ever, the nine mile trudge up the Sandia Mountains that Trail Runner Magazine calls one of the "12 Most Grueling Trail Races in North America".

I entered it again this year. Friends and family think I'm crazy, and maybe I am, just a little bit. It's easy to get addicted to this particular kind of extreme motion, lose touch with your rational faculties, and push ever harder at the edge of your personal perseverance envelope. But you know what, you also learn some nifty things about your fellow human beings.

Like the Boy Scout troop who spent all the previous day clearing the trail for last year's run. They also camped on-site overnight so that next day they'd be at the ready to pass out cups of water, slap our hands, cheer us on. What a feeling that was, to run by all those eager-faced Scouts – their enthusiasm so genuine and pure, I felt a renewed obligation to run the best race I could run.

And then later, during the infamous last half mile of the race – a stretch of 18 percent grade that has broken running spirits far tougher than mine – when I was close to tears because I was certain I wouldn't finish anything except my own life, there came out of nowhere a Voice. Not the voice of God, but someone who may as well have been. It was Mike, a member of the Albuquerque Road Runners running club, sponsors of La Luz, who of course finish the race waaaaaay before the rest of us mortals and then stick around along the last section of trail to encourage flaggers like me.

Mike got right in my face, grinned a big-toothed grin, and said, "Hey, snap out of it. Imagine there's a rope tied from around my waist to yours and I'll pull you up the rest of the way." And Mike started to run. I started to follow. Because of Mike, I made it up that last half mile in a decent enough time to finish nine minutes under my goal of three hours.

You've heard it said that there is no crying in baseball. Apparently, there isn't in running, either. Thanks, Mike, for that lesson. I sure hope you're going to be there again this year.

Opposites, They Attract Me

This is my first love in golf. And not just because he cuts such a dashing figure on the course, with his wasp waist, broad shoulders, and legs for days. Despite him utterly flubbing the U.S. Open yesterday, it is my plan to remain hopelessly devoted because he is the ultimate athlete – unbelievably talented, laser-focused, exceptionally driven. And, by all accounts, quite a nice guy off the course, oriented towards family and generous with both his time and his money (although I really wish he would see the light and quit shilling for Nike).


Still, I am considering cheating with this man:


I know. Angel Cabrera is wrong, all wrong. He smokes – cigarettes! – between holes. He's got a gut. He looks like he'd rather do anything but work out and I bet he doesn't even know what dental floss looks like, much less broccoli.

Yesterday, he finished a few holes ahead of Tiger, who, had he not squandered any number of easy peasy birdie opportunities, would have forced a play off. So where was Cabrera while Tiger finished up? Was he out hitting balls to stay warmed up? Tensely pacing? Conferring with his caddy? Nope, he was yucking it up with all and sundry back at the club house, his entire demeanor broadcasting, "Hey, I win, I win. I play off, I play off. Now, get me another cigarette and some wine."

Gah. I bet the dude is one hell of a lot of fun.

As for Tiger, I'm not ready to pack my bags just yet. Cabrera, well, he could be a one hit wonder (and I so do needs me a golfer with staying power). But Tiger, he's got to get back on game. I will wait, but I won't hold my breath.

Lost Weekend

Whoops, I skipped yesterday. That's what giddy will do to ya. As well as the first really nice, warm, sunny day of spring. I gardened. I watched a little golf (oh, Tiger . . . what happened?). I examined our bounty of wildflowers as I scooped poop.

I also pondered a few things:

Like when you and your honey go out on a Friday night to party it up at a local rockin' sushi joint and, basking in the warm glow of alcohol-induced gemutlichkeit, anticipate a lovely evening of light chit chat between yourselves and maybe a stranger or two sitting next to you and instead find yourself entangled in what seems on the surface to be an actual conversation but which instead becomes a kind of time warp perpetuated by said stranger who just may be, in fact, slightly C-R-A-Z-Y. But you've just imbibed half a bottle of saki and are, hence, game:

S.B.: My nephew pitches for LSU baseball and my family and I were over in Arkansas recently to watch his game.

Mr. Crazy: He pitches in the minor leagues?

S.B.: No, he plays college ball, for LSU.

Mr. Crazy: So, a farm team?

And still you plug away. Because, after all, he is looking at you and nodding his head in a certain manner that indicates he's not thinking about the pile of laundry waiting for him at home, but, rather, is actually listening to what you are saying. And maybe this time he will reply with something even remotely related to the topic.

Us: We're thinking of training for a mini-triathlon this August.

Mr. Crazy: I'm not wearing any underwear. It keeps the aliens at bay.

Uh, apparently not.

I also learned a few things yesterday:

1. S.B. makes the best grilled hamburgers, hands down, of any human being on earth and now all I want to do is eat a bizillion grilled hamburgers at every meal. Damn the cholesterol and transfats. Which I can do, because I'm training for a mini-triathlon. Any day now . . .

2. The very best wine on the face of the earth, hands down, to go with said hamburgers is Ponderosa Valley Vineyards Jemez Red. The definitive red table wine if I ever tasted one.

3. HBO's Saturday night premier movie was The Omen. You know, the one with Liev Schreiber looking pained as usual and Julia Stiles looking way, way, way older than necessary (I'm sorry, I don't care if you're playing a member of the U.S. diplomatic corps or a mother of the bride or are freakin' 80 bizillion years old, you should never be styled to wear a fake Chanel purple silk shantung day suit with a matching pillbox hat. And shoes dyed to match. I mean, it should be in your contract). And we won't even talk about the utter waste of Mia Farrow, who at 60-whatever-years-old, still betrays such a remarkable luminosity it was a near tragedy the way she was used here. Anyway. We figured, okay, it would be good for a laugh. Well, it was pretty stinky, but there was at least one redeeming feature. I for one was heartened to see that the Hounds of Hell are, indeed, Rottweilers, and not pit bulls. Whew.

4. Finally: NASCAR is not a sport, people. It's an activity. Please, remember that.

Okay, I'm going to go hike a mountain. And celebrate yet another gorgeous spring day.

Happy Mother's Day to all y'all . . .

Fashion Masters

I feel for men when it comes to fashion. Women have so many more options in that department. Guys, well, they have suits and khakis with button downs for work, tees and jeans and maybe a polo shirt or two for casual Fridays and the weekends. But unless they're gay or extremely metro-confident, average Joes rarely blaze their trails off the beaten path into the world of alternative pattern, color, and cut.

Except, for some reason, in golf. I'll admit it. I watch golf in part because I love the fashion. Sure, it used to be strictly grins and giggles. After all, where else but on the golf course could one watch this many grown men try to pull off this much pastel polyester? But over the past decade things have changed. Golf clothing manufacturers have really kept up with the times, venturing off into the more sophisticated wicking properties of PowerDry Mesh, Coolmax, and Supplex nylon. Not only that, they've taken up the banner of stylish fit and color with surprising elan.

Conditions at Augusta National are making for a tough Masters this year. Players are plodding along like a parade of elephants with only one or two barely clinging to below par scores. But if the play is clunky, the outfits, at least, are fabulous.

Just look at what the past couple days have wrought:

1. The normally frumpy Phil Mickelson looking almost dashing in a lime green cashmere sweater and crisp navy slacks.

2. Australian hottie Adam Scott kicking it up a few more notches in an argyle Burberry half zip sweater and slim black pants.

3. Shingo Katayma strutting his stuff in a white Nike cowboy hat and flashy, Vegas-style belt buckle. (The Japanese, you gotta love 'em. They take to fashion with the determined aplomb of NYC socialites at a sample sale.)

4. Golf fashion plate extraordinaire, and my hero, Tiger Woods, rocking the ultimate power color, shocking hot pink.

As temps plunged back down into the fifties during today's play, the players outfitted themselves in more restful ensembles. Lots of beige and camel, woodsy greens and chocolate browns. But, here and there, a burst of pumpkin orange, a flash of lipstick red, a hint of aqua green.

Unfortunately, none of this has yet to affect the Masters' long-suffering caddies. While everyone else gets to trot around in oh-so-casual chic, these poor folks are forced into shapeless pairs of over-sized white cotton coveralls, which lend them the disturbingly disheveled air of escapees from a redneck mental institution. How much trouble could it possibly be to outfit them instead in some understated khaki pants and white button downs? After all, if Tiger's silky pink polo isn't a challenge to the National's Dead White Guy ethic, what could it hurt, moving the caddies just a wee bit fashion forward?

Spring Fling Part Deaux

You may not hear from me for a couple days.

1. I have a buttload of work to do.
2. The Masters is on.
3. I'll be busy sending psychic signals to Tiger Woods because,
4. The Masters is on.