FBR (Phoenix) Open

The FBR O . . . , O . . . , Oh, hell, call it the Phoenix Open. PHOENIX OPEN! PHOENIX OPEN! Doesn't that feel good? Yes, thank you, FBR, whatever the hell it is you do, for providing the big bucks necessary to keep the top golfers coming here. That is important. Without the top golfers, the goobers who make the Phoenix Open the greatest people-watching event in the Valley wouldn't show up. Because, you know, they're really into great golf. The fun here is watching Scottsdale's finest show up and try to mate in daylight. This is unusual. Usually, in the bar, they can't see each other; the over-globbing glazing of the hair, the boobs that don't flex against spandex (PING G2 titanium implants, perhaps?), the baggy eyes from working every night to pay for the Miata in the parking lot that looks like a Z4 if you park it back there under the streetlight that's burned out. The Bird's Nest is back at the course! Hooray for faux-batshit-crazy-crazy-dude-fun-dude! But holy shit. Back when the Goldwaters were working this thing, it was a classy back-room affair. Bob Hope played this room, for God's sake. Now, it's whatever cover band can play "What I Like About You." What the hell has happened to us!?! Oh, settle. It's all good. Because beauty is on the prowl. Don't question beauty. For it is the essence of fun. Overheated, overstated, underdressed, overeducated at institutions where beauty understudied because it could because it was beautiful. Enjoy watching it all. It is skin-deep golf, played beyond the boundaries of golf. And like golf, the pretenders will fade with the fading light on Friday, and the real players, the really fun folks to watch, will be charging for the title as Sunday draws to a close.


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