Sci Fi pop-culture consciousness meets the cudgels of Scottish curmudgeons:

Do you remember the Trouble with Tribbles episode of Star Trek? Not that I am a huge Star Trek fan, but if you’re of a certain age is does form part of your TV inspired consciousness. Tribbles are pseudo space hamsters that multiply when fed and loved on, like Gizmo in a swimming pool popping siblings out of his boiling back. They fall from overhead compartments until Klingons and Kirk alike suspect dastardly plots behind the fuzz. I am having the same trouble with golf balls. They are everywhere. They are in every junk drawer, rolling around in my trunk, my glove box, that little compartment for drinks between the two front seats of your car, a wicker basket on the way into the house, the bar caddy, the silverware drawer, my bowling ball bag, fishing tackle box, and of course my shaving case (which also has tees in it), as you only use the travel case on vacation and vacations are made for golf (not that I am any good mind you, but I am improving).

At the end of every game it just so happens that you have a few spare balls in your pocket. You know, extra in case you lose one, a non-migrating African Swallow flies off with one, or if you should wish to drive and putt with separate balls. Normal people put them back in the golf bag at the end of the game, but the subconsciously influenced Tribble folk like myself sow these golf balls throughout the nooks and crannies of their lives like Johnny Apple Seed on a mythological distribution tour, and each “seed” is wrapped in a psychic shell such that even the slightest eye contact with the dimpled surface of the ball will cause you to think, “Maybe I should be golfing? When and how could I be golfing again?” And thus the seed grows its numbers in seminal millions in accordance with the evolutionary value of the scatter shot, such that golf courses emerge from the suburbs and condo associations like cultish Scottish hives, where mad hornets of the game use their big bertha stingers to lob larva into the underbrush and leave hail like dimples on the hoods of passing cars.

Damn you travel case, I have work to do. Dastardly driving range, I will not head your call.

My Horoscope from yesterday:

Dear Karl,
Here is your horoscope
for Saturday, July 17:

If you're off on a trip, no matter how long or short, rest assured that you'll have a marvelous time. Matter of fact, see if you can't get started early.

Boy, they weren’t kidding. We left the house around six to get downtown and had slow traffic through Delmar only to discover that the Metro-link park and ride lot was filled with Alice Cooper fans waiting to see him at The Pageant. There was no parking to be had there, so having been fucked by the Coop we tried our hand at the Daboliver station. The parking lot there had been demolished and the local grocery store advised that they would tow any link parkers so with mounting blood pressure we decided to just go downtown, the link is only useful if it is convenient and yesterday it was clearly mismanaged – advice, don’t let The Pageant use the link lot as overflow while simultaneously smashing nearby alternatives. We were in a heavy traffic jam downtown for maybe forty minutes – bumper to bumper along the West edge of the Arch park grounds. When we got down to the rivers edge we were among the last few cars to be allowed into the garage for the President Casino, Arch parking had long since been filled – which for all my stress turned out to be a stones throw from the main stage. We walked right up and the concert started about twenty minutes after we got there. It was a great show culminating with an intense encore of Rock Lobster followed by a half hour of barge delivered fireworks and a laser light show. The weather was perfect, high sixties and breezy. It was a great time – followed by Gin and Pizza at my back yard table. We fired up Vick and Trev’s new hookahs with mango and double apple respectively and managed to convert all of us to the fine art of hookah smoking – much better when you have a clean pipe with a single hose, than if you are under-serviced at Nick’s Wine Bar on a three hosed slightly stale antique. Ah well, my prewriting is accomplished – I have some professional writing to get to that this has been the primer for – get the juices flowing – that sort of thing. Also soon off to Harry Potter – so be well.