Some friends who think I do nothing but sit around on my big behind all day (which is not true; occasionally I stand) recently invited me to join them for a round of golf. The conversation went something like this:
Friends: “Hey, Mike. Join us for a round of golf.”
That should have been the end of it, but I have persistent friends, persistent friends who like to remind me of a time when I would drop everything to play golf, especially if “everything” meant work.
I was a music critic then, which meant I wor … well, you can’t call it work, really. It was mostly going to evening concerts and writing snarky things about them for the next day’s newspaper. It’s exactly what I would have been doing, anyway, save the typing. I would have just said the snarky things, instead.