Geez, this is depressing (except for Mark B's suggestion of hiring a great super and watching his back).
Ok, then - I'll be the Greek Chorus: bitter tears mixing with maniacal laughter and the gnashing of teeth as in long, drawn-out drones of anguished lament I bemoan the fate of a once great game, of golfing lives un-lived and of memories fading and skills eroding irrovocably, and watching from high in the rafters stage left I'll cry out thin wailing warnings of hubris and the fall as Gate-keepers and Dictators tempt fate, vainly waiting for the deus ex machina or for Mike Kieser's offspring to appear on the fake backdrop of blue horizon and grandly intone that all is well, and that all will be well, and that all manner of things will be well. I'll wear a flowing white calico knee-length dress tied with soft green stems at the waist, and wear dried flowers in my hair and sandals on my feet, and in my hand will wield as an old crone's staff one of Lee Trevino's first 1 irons.
Peter