Bogey,
When Augusta National is important enough to hold 5 U.S Opens and 3 U.S. Amateurs - putting aside the rest of our storied history - let me know.
Purity of pedigree takes precedence over a ham-handed amalgamation of architectural fads du jour - forcing some kind of tone-deaf, clumsy series of penis extensions to satisfy the techno-whores who make a mockery of the game's ethos for one week a year.
Let's not forget that nearly every negative deviation from golf's roots began at Augusta. Insane green speeds (okay, maybe Oakmont and Henry Fownes also had a hand), wall-to-wall manicured grass, enough flowers to put Sentry World to shame - and an aura of snobbish exclusivity so self-assured, co-founder Cliff Roberts was an even bigger twat than Leona Helmsley.
Now, to be clear, I'm perfectly happy to walk around and get a gander of the legendary slopes and wild putting surface contours, but only if I'm not required to cough up $400 a night for the privilege of a crab-infested bed and a trough of beans and collard for the price of dinner at The French Laundry.
As for playing Augusta, I'm happy to play it - the same way I'm happy to take an insane nympho for a test drive, but I'm not trading in my membership to endure a grill-room full of Hord Hardin dopplegangers.
And as for your snot-off about our world-famous "Bill's Burger-Dogs" - since 1953 - there is no better gastronomic delight at any American club (even the Jewish ones) that comes close. I've had the Turtle Soup at PV, the NGLA crab lunch, the steak at Winged Foot, the soup at Merion, you name it - there is no comparison.
Speaking of Delta (or Northwest), if you send me a ticket to Augusta or Frankfort, Michigan and force me to choose, you'll find me on DeVries' back patio, looking out at the Sleeping Bear Dunes.