The golf excursion to the California desert proved to be semi-disastrous, since the rain did not let up, and I cut the trip short. I did, however, get to walk nine holes of the Nicklaus Private Course at PGA West, during the Bob Hope Classic, with Scott Martin and the player for whom he caddies, Richard S. Johnson. It was a good time, and hanging out with Scott could not have gone better—he is likely the nicest person I've ever known. But then again, he's Canadian, so being nice goes with the territory. The Yukon, I believe.
On an entirely different front (and more in keeping with the cursed-karma theme of last year), my van's windshield wipers broke in the middle of the downpour, and I had to drive half-blind through pools of water to find a mechanic, who managed only to half screw me. Then, since I would not be playing golf due to the courses' soggy conditions, I decided to head home, only to make it about 23 miles before deciding to spend the night in the Morongo Casino Resort parking lot. It was a good decision, since the freeway was a wind-swept, water-logged, truck-laden nightmare. I slept well.
But just a minute ago, after having baked one of the most delicious loaves of bread in the history of man (take that, Emeril!), I received an email from Google AdSense saying that it was pulling my blog's ads because somehow my ads posed a danger to its advertisers. By that, I'm certain, they mean that they were going to have to pay me something, as the minutia-filled contract specified. I did not once click on any of the ads (abiding by my side of the contract), even to see which sites the ads linked to. Alas, I should have seen this coming, though.
And yet I could just be out of sorts because I haven't played golf or practiced in three days. Or, for that matter, written. I hope to rectify these shortcomings tomorrow.
As for the AdSense bullshit, who knows?