Barny,
I’m sure there are several people who believe we are both (already) orbiting from a space station, but this is actually a fairly interesting query.
Where *don't* I want to go?
Heresy alert: I don’t care if I ever play Augusta. I’ve never been to the Masters; my purely intellectual curiosity is probably limited to studying the putting surfaces (#14 & #17 in particular come to mind). Beyond that - and the fact the city is a piece of shit - the course strikes me as an amalgamation of endless tinkering, aimed solely at one week a year.
My two opportunities to play it came and went - too tough to work around my schedule - but in truth, if I had moved heaven and earth, it was doable.
After spending a day on the grounds, smart money has me on the couch next to Mike Young, watching on T.V.
In fact, I’ve never even bothered to tag along with homies to the Masters. I suppose I’ll finally go next year, but I’m more interested in seeing an early practice round (or when nobody is on the course) than fighting a hoard of patrons. I’m sure I can get a pimento sandwich on Tuesday - but doubtful it will hold a candle to an Olympic Club burger-dog.
By contrast, I would have cut off my right testicle to play Pine Valley the first time - thankfully that was not necessary. That is also where I first met David Normoyle, one of my favorite friends on the planet.
I’ve got a strong desire to return to the European Continent, but the plan - after rolling hard though the U.K. and Ireland - is ship my sticks home and concentrate on Burgundy and Foie gras pairings. I’m no more interested in playing golf in France or Switzerland than climbing the Matterhorn naked.
Returning to Japan is definitely on my bucket list - if only to remember what a clean, safe, harmonious society looks and feels like. I had to turn down a fully paid trip 20 years ago - as the guest of a Japanese billionaire I helped get into Olympic. He was an incredibly interesting man who belonged to a dozen clubs, including Alison’s Hirono. Yeah, I’m still kicking myself.
Going back to China - for golf or any reason - is on my chamber pot list. I can play all the Ron Freem courses I want for $32, without having to pretend to enjoy eating batter-fried cockroaches.
Since the Biden and The Squad are going to throw Israel under the bus next January, I wouldn’t go to the Middle East on a bet.
Speaking of travel, I’ll break my sworn moratorium on Fazio courses and impose on you at Vic National before the end of September. Her Redness hates to fly these days and I’ll be damned if I’m going to put on a face berka and breathe my own halitosis clear across the country, drinking beer through a fucking straw.
P.S. For the studio audience and newbie lurkers, Kavanaugh’s original nom de plume was “Barny” - owing to an autographed picture of Barney Frank he carried in his golf bag. He never explained why the “e” was omitted . . . . . nor the significance of "Jaka b” or “Gillette Silver” - his other alter-egos. I chalked it up to schizophrenia, but I promise you, John is perfectly sane in person. Me, not so much.