Las cruces new mexico golf courses

I am a 24 year old photographer about to embark on my first big photography project. I'm taking solo round-trip from Lancaster, Pennsylvania to Santa Cruz, California to New York City, taking as many memorable shots along the way.
This is obviously a big stretch... even for me, so I am doing it on a low budget. Aside from potential photo ops along any of these routes, I'm looking for free campsites, cheap motels, restaurants, rest areas, etc . . .
Any tips/ suggestions would be very helpful this summer.
https://preview.redd.it/1hzfabic1b3b1.png?width=1315&format=png&auto=webp&s=20ba065ce0669b29affc76537e30a8bf9a1f26e5

I am new to the city of Las Cruces. I was driving down Dripping Springs to head home when an officer pulled me over as he was setting up his speed trap. He got me for 11 miles an hour over in a 45. My court date is set for the 30th of next month.
My car is a JDM import so the speedometer is metric rather than imperial. Do I tell the judge about this?

I’m in need of advice. This isn’t the typical recipe question or query about certain food item or tool. It’s entirely professional in nature. I’m unsure if this is even the correct subreddit to submit to, so please feel free to point me in the right way. But I feel rather depressed with where I’m at professionally and am wondering if I’ve just had a bad week or if I need to make a change.
I’m a 30 year old man and I joined the food industry two years ago. I plan to join culinary school this September. It was always a dream of mine to be a chef but I’d only realized that parental expectations wouldn’t make me happy, so here I am.
Two years ago, I joined as a dishwasher at a golf course/banquet hall with the expectation that I would eventually work either in the golf course’s downstairs kitchen (for those who know what a golf course halfway house is, it is that, but also provides bistro foods and typical bar and grill menu items) or the upstairs banquet kitchen.
Over the course of the first year, I went from being a dishwasher to a line cook in the downstairs kitchen. The guy who was training me downstairs quit and I had become the head line cook for a total of three weeks, which was cool but hard. I wasn’t ready. I begged the executive chef of the golf course to hire someone else to lead and to continue my training. We hired the current head line cook who is a great dude but didn’t appreciate how I looked like I had some experience but still needed training. I understood that so I never complained and grinded for a year under him, doing my best to improve.
After a long conversation with the executive chef, I was asked if I enjoyed working downstairs, to which I said I wasn’t. Thankfully, he moved me upstairs to help with events like weddings, company retreats, and conferences.
For most of the second year I either helped with prep and setting up and breaking down buffets and plated dinners. I was pretty happy doing the former and assumed that the latter was typical for banquet cuisine, which I’m told it is. After the first half of the second year, my boss expressed that he wasn’t interested in really teaching me past the basics and encouraged me to pursue culinary school, which I agree with. Things like learning how to work more efficiently and consistently was something that I needed work on in the past and am still working on. It’s only recently, actually, that I’m able to see some progress in my abilities. I wish I was able to learn quicker, but I guess it’s important to be real about my own weaknesses.
Anyways, here’s where the trouble started. Recently, I’ve moved from a prep cook position upstairs to the golf course’s only pastry chef. How that worked out was that I brought in several desserts over the course of the last two months during family meal, which were a big hit with all the staff, owners included. I didn’t expect them to like it so much. Then, the executive chef expressed that he wanted me to be in charge of making pastries for banquets, but I needed to learn and hone my skills from that of a home pastry cook to someone who can produce products in larger quantities. This, by itself isn’t the problem, but is some context. I spent the last two months reading every major authority on the subject that I could afford, experimenting in my own kitchen, and outfitting part of the upstairs kitchen to be able to accommodate our new pastry station! I spent my days off with a friend who is an ACTUAL pastry chef who has her own online school for the craft, learning from her and absorbing what she kindly had to offer. I spent so much of my money on kitchen appliances and gear that I barely had enough left for recreational time or purchases. But through all of this I found such profound meaning. I was so happy. The executive chef even promised that as long as I kept on grinding and improving that we could work together for a very long time, even past finishing culinary school.
But then our only sous chef quit. Myself and a guy much younger than me (who joined half a year after I did) were expected to share the load to get us through the busy summer season. Some changes were made to my own job: We started sourcing desserts from outside companies to make it easier on me while I essentially support all the other chefs, once again setting up and breaking down buffets and plated dinners by myself. Running food to and from the kitchen. Doing tasks for the other chefs to make their lives easier, such as fetching fresh produce and manufactured products from the fridges and freezers. And this is now maybe 90% of my time spent at work for the past two weeks. Meanwhile, the younger guy is given more meaningful tasks that fit his talents while I’m sort of just left doing grunt work.
I understand that I needed to help pitch in but I didn’t expect that my previous position was being reduced to plating desserts that other kitchens or factories have made while now being bossed around by literally everyone in the kitchen, even the dishwashers.
I just feel uninspired, unappreciated, and that my admittedly short career of two years were wasted. The executive chef certainly does appreciate me stepping up, but I feel like it is more of a step down.
In the past week, so starting one week after this sudden change, I’ve become more irritable, unapproachable, and unfocused. These, I admit, are totally unbecoming and shameful. So, I decided that I need to make a decision on my future.
Here’s what I can expect: things aren’t expected to change much in June, which appears to be so jam packed full of events that we will likely never have time to make in-house desserts at least until the month ends. There is a work shortage in my area of the world, so there’s a chance that we can hire someone permanent so that I will have the time to make in-house desserts again, but it may take some number of weeks or months to get someone dependable. At the very least, I will eventually transition into part-time work because I enter culinary school this September.
So, what should I do? Should I just wait this period out until I get into culinary school and then apply for a better job once I’m done there? Should I explore my options for a potentially more meaningful job right now? Should I wait until after June or the summer is over to see if anything changes enough to make a decision on leaving or even staying? Should I give this place at least another year?
If you’ve read this far, then Im thankful for whatever advice you have to share. Today, I had exploded on a dishwasher and had been sulking all day. I don’t want to be this person. I’d appreciate any advice whether it’s an encouragement or telling me that Im just being overly emotional and childish. Again, thank you.
Edited because grammar.

I’m 24 and going to law school. To work and network with a white collar job (and also because it looks fun), I’ve decided to learn golf.
My dad isn’t a pro by any means, but he’s passable and plays maybe 10 times a year, so he took me to a very easy, laid back course today for my first time actually playing. Also I recently inherited some clubs from my grandfather, so that was a special touch.
I’ve been to a driving range maybe 20 times and am pretty naturally athletic. I slice most drives and shank plenty of shots but, ya know, I’m not gonna kill anyone or take 5 hours to play 9 holes or leave a massive hole in the ground.
All the same, scrolling through some of these posts made me nervous as hell. I thought for sure I’d get yelled at and fuck up some etiquette. I tend to be a little socially anxious, so I was very scared stepping onto the course.
My dad and I get through our first 4 and it was going much better than I thought. No need to yell fore and I was only about a +10 with a couple mulligans that my dad granted me. We noticed some regulars behind us, but they weren’t close enough to play through yet.
We finish hole 4 and start to tee up hole 5. I shank my first drive into the tall grass, turn around and see one of the guys behind us driving up in his cart. I turn red as hell as I set down another ball, then I proceed to do the exact same fucking thing.
I’m embarrassed as fuck now and about ready to quit. Not just the hole, I mean just walk off the golf course. In my mind, this regular is here to poke fun at me for being new or tell me to hurry up, or else yell at me for messing up some manners. I mutter something to my dad about playing off his ball and put my driver away.
The regular walks up to me and hands me a club…my wedge that I forgot on the hole before lol. He smiles and tells me to give it another shot. I tee up another ball and absolutely stripe one. My best shot ever, by far, directly down a straight par 3 and a few yards from the green. This old regular gives me a thumbs up and lets us know that they’re gonna skip ahead a hole while we finish up this one.
Anyway, I had lots of fun and bonded with my dad. We’re gonna go again tomorrow. All of that to say, most of the old regulars actually seem pretty chill and nice, contrary to what I was afraid of based on this sub.

It's behind a paywall so here's the full thing:
The Sport Republic group admit they were too removed from the action and recruited poorly as their first full season since taking over ended with the drop.
I meet the three men who own Southampton in what is about to become their new shared office at the club’s impressive training ground. They have had a few weeks longer to dwell on what went wrong this past season than their counterparts at Leeds United and Leicester City and one clear conclusion they have drawn is that they should have spent more time at the club. Rasmus Ankersen and Henrik Kraft are the co-founders of Sport Republic, which bought Southampton in January 2022 with the financial backing of Dragan Solak, a Serbian businessman.
“We were not close enough to understand what was really going on,” Ankersen says. “That’s a major lesson for us. We acted like a parent who is sending money to their kid but not sending their love and attention,” Solak says. “It never works and it didn’t work in our case as well. That’s why we are going to be close, to show support, to know what is going on, and knowing exactly what the club needs. We thought a huge amount of financial support would resolve a lot but it didn’t really.”
There have been, as a consequence, a raft of executive changes, including Solak, a self-made Serbian businessman, becoming the chairman of Sport Republic.
Solak had assumed he would be a silent investor “coming to a few games and enjoying some of them” but now he will help with strategy and give Kraft the space to become, in the long term, the chairman of Southampton.
“When we were relegated,” Solak says, “I thought it was important we showed the people at the club and the supporters that we are going nowhere. If anything, we will be here more than before.”
From his distant vantage point Solak could not work out why the players “sometimes did not have enough heart, it did not look like a synchronised effort”.
He wondered if there was a psychological problem. “We know we have great players, but they don’t show that in the games,” he says. “Some answers we got from the club were, ‘Don’t worry, it will be better.’
“We would now like to know more about the life of the club and to be supportive to enable them to be the best possible. We were not failed by the people in the club, I failed them. I should have been closer to everything.” From now on he will be, as he puts it, “part of the family”.
Supporters had witnessed what began as a promising takeover gradually become dysfunctional in terms of results. The owners refute that they in any way briefed against Ralph Hasenhüttl who was sacked in November. They backed the Austrian in the summer of 2022, having enjoyed a short honeymoon period up until the previous March.
“It became clear it wasn’t working and then there was the unique situation of the World Cup coming up and there was speculation and negativity,” Kraft says. “It wasn’t a foregone conclusion. We wanted him to be successful, why wouldn’t we?”
“I personally like the guy, we play golf together,” Solak says. “He lost the confidence in being able to turn things around.”
Nathan Jones proved a spectacular disappointment as Hasenhüttl’s replacement. “When we appointed Nathan it was based on what we needed to improve to stay in the Premier League,” Ankersen says. “We had stopped being aggressive, being on the front foot, we had problems with set pieces and Nathan had proven he had been able to instil that in a team [Luton Town] that was in the Championship, but which has now been promoted. It was not to do with his character, he’s a great guy, he’s hungry.”
“We have to admit we didn’t see him not being able to handle the media pressure at Premier League level,” Solak says. “If he could have been more calm and calculated after the games he would have stayed longer.
“Him being too honest and losing it a little bit in front of the cameras turned the fans against him. He definitely didn’t do what we wanted, but it was not too bad. He was the guy who stopped Pep Guardiola [after victory over Manchester City in the League Cup] having the chance of a Quadruple.”
Much criticism was aimed at the club for buying young players with no Premier League experience in January. “Everyone wants a proven Premier League striker, they are hard to find,” Ankersen says. “January is a hard window.”
Ankersen admits “we didn’t get the balance right”, but points out that Carlos Alcaraz was particularly productive in spite of only playing half a season. “To some extent the young players were carrying the team,” he says.
The elder statesman of Southampton is James Ward-Prowse, who is contracted until 2026, and given that the 28-year-old has been at the club his entire career, it would be a wrench for the fans to see him leave.
“Of course, we would love to keep him,” Ankersen says. “He is Mr Southampton, he’s done amazing things. He will be in demand. If there is something that comes up that satisfies the club financially and satisfies James then out of respect we will have to have that conversation. “It would be selfish to say, we have a contract, and not fair to him,” Solak adds. “If he can play Champions League football next season, then that would be great for him. We have to see who will approach us.”
Will they try to blitz the Championship or work their way organically through the challenges? “We would like to do it organically and then blitz,” Solak laughs.
“We are building an organisation that is fit for purpose and has all the capabilities to go straight back to the Premier League,” Kraft says. “When you look at the infrastructure and the facilities then you can see this is a club that belongs in the Premier League. Our goal is unashamedly to win the Championship. We’re not doing a patch job, we’re doing it in the right way.”
They will need the right manager and the recommendation of Jason Wilcox, the new director of football, recruited from Manchester City in January, will hold the most weight. The successor to Rubén Sellés will be in situ by the time the team return for pre-season training at the end of June.
Both Ankersen and Kraft are motivated to build something innovative, a multi-club structure that unearths talent in Africa and, according to Kraft, “to prove you can build a model that is financially sustainable because there is a belief in football that the only way to compete is to throw money at it. We’re trying to break that.”
“I just thought it’s going to be great fun,” Solak says of his motivation. “I thought I was going to be a passive investor but as I become more active, I love it. In the Championship I might have more happy weekends.”

Continued from Pt. 1, which can be found at:
Pt 1: https://www.reddit.com/Horror_stories/comments/13wymkl/ghost_word_pt_1/
WARNING: This story contains depictions of non-consensual sex and gun violence.
---------------------------------
Lyle found himself on foot, the valise at his side, the night air crisp and noisy. He realized he was ravenous. No surprise there, he hadn’t had anything to eat or drink in twenty-six hours. The late evening traffic was brisk around the campus, and as he passed a roving pack of students Lyle realized it was Thursday night*. Thirsty Thursdays*.
In keeping with ancient tradition, the majority of undergraduates avoided Friday morning classes at all costs, preferring to begin their weekend revels on Thursday nights. Lyle followed his feet. He imagined power emanating from the briefcase at his side, thrumming up his arm. He felt, for perhaps the first time in a life of shrinking uncertainty, boundless.
And it felt extraordinary.
Somewhere inside of him a notion was forming that he did not dare articulate. But he followed his feet. The easy ebb and flow of walk signals, the pleasantly cool night air, the passing chatter, even the occasional car-horn—which in the past had never failed to startle him, jittery as he was—seemed buoyant and agreeable. The night was his. He realized he was sloping gently downhill, as he followed his feet. He realized he knew exactly where he was going. He found himself before O’Flaherty’s Pub, with its sandwich-board blaring LADIES NIGHT 1/2 WELL DRINKS -- TRUST ME YOU CAN DANCE in electric pink loops. It felt only natural to step beneath the awning, swing wide the knotted mahogany door, and enter the din.
The ham-hock manning security—probably a redshirt lineman in his off-season—turned toward Lyle on autopilot, one hand reaching out as a question formed on his lips, lemme see some ID. Lyle made no attempt to reach for his wallet because he knew the inevitable would happen when the bouncer took in his face, which he did a half second later. A tiny beat of recognition flickered and was gone, and the bouncer turned away. No need to card the old dude. Good luck navigating the vicissitudes of adult life, you Mongoloid, Lyle thought. The jag off had a Black & Mild tucked up behind one ear, Lyle felt an insane urge to snatch it off his head and break it in half. He did not do well with the pretend authority of chunky, dead-eyed adolescents.
But I’m not here for him.
Lyle wove his way into the evening crush with the delicate, shuffling little steps he always used in crowds. By fits and starts he made his way deeper, deeper, winding toward the back bar, the one with the full-length mirror. That was her favorite. O’Flaherty’s had a Crosley jukebox, wood-paneled and coin-operated, reaching for vintage but stuffed to the gills with Bluetooth and wi-fi and digital memory and whatever else. A woman’s voice was booming out of it, an empty pop ballad gussied up by her big, operatic sound. Lyle tried to think of the singer’s name, but couldn’t. He squeezed into a narrow gap at the back bar.
Darby was flirting as she mixed a rum-and-coke for a gawky, dough-faced kid in a flat-cap and a Harrington jacket. On the few occasions he had come out on Darby missions, Lyle had stayed well back from the bar, waiting for drink service at one of the small cafe tables lining the billiard room. But tonight, he wasn’t here to watch.
Darby handed off the drink and caught sight of Lyle. He winced—he could read the surprise, even discomfort, on her face. But she was tending bar, and she was quick on her feet, and she rearranged her expression into a smile. She held up a finger—*one sec—*to which Lyle nodded, as she took flat-cap’s (father’s) Amex back to the register and opened up a tab.
Lyle enjoyed watching her walk. Enjoyed looking at her from the back, or in profile. He usually saw her face, in class, big brown doe eyes and very pale, freckled skin. A shade away from clear, he had heard her joke once, to James, as she had invited him to touch the roadmap of blue veins on her inner arm. That had enraged Lyle—the sudden, unwelcome image of James with those long creamy legs locked over his waist, his long, slow thrusts.
Because he restrained himself from ogling her in class, it was a pleasure to come to O’Flaherty’s during her shifts and watch her as she worked. Darby was not the first of what Lyle thought of as his “favorites”. Every year or two there was a fresh, irresistible young thing, for him to think about, alone, late at night. One of the unspoken perks of professordom was the constant influx of eye-candy, of short skirts and long legs and high asses and pert young tits. In his mind’s eye it was an endless profusion of imagined aureoles, of wondering about their panties—boy-briefs or frilly little whatsits or g-strings or none at all—and even if Lyle never slept with them there was an intense eroticism in holding power over these girls he could never have bedded in his own college years. In pushing that term paper over the failing line and waiting, deliciously waiting, for them to come to his office hour and plead. Only Darby’s work was reasonably competent, so even that grimy thrill was denied him.
Darby finished up with the register and came over, the pale of her neck stark against her tight black t-shirt. O’FLAHERTY’S was printed on it in green, the name stretched to accommodate her bust. Her hair frazzled at the temples; she’d been working hard.
Just a little dirty, that’s how I like you, he thought.
“Dr. L! We missed you today, thought maybe you caught the gunk. You all right?” Darby beamed her big smile at him, a gift of the gods (and of immaculate orthodontics).
“I’m fine, Darby, thanks. Just a communication mix-up. I’m sorry you all waited.”
She kept smiling, seemed to be waiting for more. He didn’t give it to her.
“Well—can I get you anything?”
Lyle hesitated, trying to think of a manly drink, something urbane and—professorial.
“Scotch-rocks. A double.”
Darby continued to stare at him, expectantly. “Any… particular poison, or-?”
Lyle glanced up, made a show of studying the bottles arrayed behind her. He knew nothing about scotch. Stupid. He settled on Johnnie Walker Black, and Darby poured his drink.
Lyle realized his heart was racing. Darby set the drink in front of him and he downed half of it in one swallow. He managed to keep his face neutral as the liquor seared his throat.
“This is a—little bit of a departure, for you, huh?” Darby indicated the scotch.
“What?”
She must have known he heard her but she raised her voice anyway. The music had changed to a British pop group with a lot of electronic undertones, trying to sound haunting.
“The scotch,” she said. “Don’t you always order lemon drop martinis? When you come in?”
Busted. Two bright red circles appeared high on his cheeks.
“You know, it, it depends,” he replied. “Depends on my mood. And you—you make a hell of a lemon drop martini, here.”
Fucking idiot, he thought. They make the same Goddamn lemon drop martini as everybody else and she knows it.
Darby was smooth, though. Graceful. She rolled right past it. “I wondered why you never came over and said hi.”
“Well I don’t want to, you know, be a bother. You’re working. It’s always busy. And I’ve been coming here for years, off and on. You get used to seeing students out on the town. I try to give them their space.”
“Oh.” Her smile reappeared. “Well I’m glad you came over. Let me know if I can get you anything else?” She was already angling away.
“How was class today?” Lyle didn’t want to let her go. She glanced down the bar, she had customers waiting.
“It was great, really great,” she hurried her answer. She was giving him the brush-off. “James did great. He’s an awesome teacher. Awesome guy.”
“You know, I’d been meaning to ask you, about James…” Lyle leaned in, conspiratorially. Darby’s smile was faltering, but courtesy won out and she leaned in to hear.
“Are you fucking him?”
Darby recoiled, as though he had spit on her.
“What?”
“Do you laugh at me, when you do it? When you fuck, do you laugh at the scabby, horn-dog professor?”
Darby’s breath hitched in her chest, she looked like she was about to cry. She took a step back. She looked down the bar, and then past him—toward the door.
Bouncer, he thought. She’s looking for the bouncer.
“I think you need to—” she began.
Then Lyle said the Word. The alien Word, meant to be moaned, easy as pie, really, when you thought about it, how the sounds flowed together. The Word that meant libido.
Darby froze. Her pupils flickered, Lyle saw, they constricted down to pinpricks, and then dilated as wide as they could go, swallowing the puppy-dog brown of her irises. Her face went slack. That wide, expensive smile vanished, and her mouth hung slightly open.
“Moisten your lips, Darby,” he said.
Her tongue slid out, pink and supple, and she obeyed.
Oh, my God, she OBEYED.
Lyle’s penis twitched in his pants, he realized he was painfully erect, his balls aching. He realized he had been, had been since—since I said the Word—since he had her and a cruel, savage sense of triumph shook him, he felt his pulse hammering in his veins, he felt like standing up on the bar and—
ROARING I want to ROAR at this dewy twat and all her imbecilic peers—
But instead, he took his cock firmly in his hand, through the cheap fabric of his Ross trousers, squeezed himself, and said—
“What are we going to do with you, Darby?”
#
Lyle fucked her in the alleyway behind O’Flaherty’s. That meant hurrying more than he liked, the dumpster provided cover but the blocks surrounding the campus were too well policed. It was all right, though. Now that he was armed with the libido-Word, the next time could be more leisurely.
He took her in. All of her. The small, surprisingly dark nipples, nothing like he’d imagined. The fine, black hairs on the nape of her neck, the peach fuzz of her freckled low back, her inner thighs. Her panties were white briefs with green stitching, they were covered with tiny frogs. He tugged them down, and nuzzled her there. He left hickeys, on her ass, her mons. Her smooth, exquisite young cunt.
Lyle took her from behind and saw the groggy confusion in her dilated eyes, the amazement*—*and through that the pleasure, the unsuspected, unwanted, violating pleasure that jolted moans out of her.
Lyle sucked her neck, bit it, hard enough to sting. She gave a tiny mewl as she came, and her spasm triggered him also. Lyle buried himself to the hilt in her, finished in her, and felt—
Like a king. Like a GOD.
They stayed there as the minutes stretched out, panting, still joined. He savored her, until his own tumescence vanished, and he slipped out. Lyle patted her derriere.
“Get dressed and get back to work, Darby,” he said. “We don’t want you to get in trouble.”
She jerked her head, drunkenly, from side to side, as though she were trying to shake water out of her ears. Lyle breathed deep, in through his nose, the fine scents of the city. Fried food nearby, probably the Thai joint catty-corner to the pub. He stood and admired, as Darby tugged her frog-panties back up those long pale legs.
“I’ll see you in class.”
Darby stared blankly at him as he took up his suitcase, turned, and strode into the night.
#
When Lyle opened his eyes the next morning, he was only mildly surprised to discover that he felt no guilt at all. The sun streamed in, the world was up and running, coffee was calling, and by God he felt fine.
He sat up in bed, stretched. He glanced at the alarm clock, that hateful sentinel, now toothless—10:27AM. The mattress was bare, beneath him. He’d never washed the sheets. Puddled on the floor were yesterday’s clothes. He resisted the urge to tidy them up. Later. He padded to the bathroom and went about his ablutions, brushed his teeth, took out his shaving kit. He had used the sleep-Word on himself again, last night. After.
After! He let the memories wash over him. Her smell: the tang of sweat, bar-odors, the undercurrent of peach soap. The taste of her! And then the feast, afterward. He had followed his nose to Great Elephant Thai, wolfed down a plate of kai thot, fried to a crisp and dripping oil*.* It may have been the finest meal of his life.
And he had had such dreams! Dreams of Darby, and of favorites past. Dreams of fucking and of wealth and of slights avenged and of respectful, deferential looks, dreams of voices falling silent when he entered a room, of every eye on him. A song lyric drifted into his head, something from his childhood, a favorite of his father’s one long summer, repeated ad nauseam on the fourteen-hour drive down to Savannah.
“Twenty years a’crawlin’… were bottled up in Tommy… he wasn’t holding nothin’ back, he let ‘em have it all…” Lyle sang, full voice, into the morning. A stupid grin spread over his face, as he wicked away the last patch of Barbasol, the careful spot right over his Adam’s apple, and rinsed his razor. He took a long look at Mirror-Lyle, looked into his eyes. He almost always avoided a close examination of his reflection, force of habit, but today he was a new man, and he wanted to take that man’s measure.
“Everyone… considered him… THE COWARD OOOF… the COUNTYYYY…”
Something else surfaced, then, in his memory, something that cranked the wattage down on his smile. He didn’t get all of it, just a glimpse, like a dorsal fin rising above the water. He had dreamed of more than power and sex. There had been something else. Lyle had a vague red recollection of tangled depths and faceless figures. His mind offered up a fleeting image of a crumbling stone structure, of keening wind and squat pillars; and of a great broken vault overhead, through which could be seen a blasted sky.
Lyle charged his phone as he brewed up a fresh pot. It had run out of juice somewhere during yesterday’s festivities, and when it finally powered up again it began to vibrate against the Formica tabletop in his dining nook. He ignored the first two pulses, but the phone insistently continued, not with the regular rhythm of an incoming call, but rather the inconsistent bursts of message notifications trickling in from the cloud. He tapped the touchscreen, and saw he had seven missed calls: one from a colleague, yesterday; and six from James, each one with a voicemail attached. The most recent of these had come just twenty minutes ago.
Lyle sipped on his coffee as he retrieved the briefcase from beneath his bed. He sat at his dinette and removed the fascicle, easily finding the rigid page. He opened it, and this time the new Word was waiting for him below the first, long entry: the entry corresponding to the letter “A” itself. This Word was angry, Ks and Zs, a hornet-word, serpent-word. Lyle looked to the white space, where the definition would arise. He pricked his forefinger with the tip of a steak knife and squeezed out two droplets of blood.
der zorn
Lyle sipped. Lyle thought. Greek, then Latin, now German. Was it moving forward in time? He wondered again about those first shapes he had seen, in the library. The more he tried to remember the more he doubted they had been in Greek. Something older, maybe. Phoenician syllabary? He would likely never know. But the Words were changing. The book was changing.
And there was this: both of the—*spells, they’re spells, let’s cut the shit—*both of the Words it had given him so far had been…
“Intuitive,” he said finally. “Useful. Like it knew.”
Lyle took down the last foil sleeve of blueberry Pop Tarts from his cupboard. Pauper’s breakfast, he thought, but not for much longer. He searched through his contacts until he found the number for the Chancellor’s office. He thumbed the little blue phone icon beside it.
#
Lyle had just started boxing up his things when James burst into his office, perfectly symmetrical face distorted by fury, his generous features made ugly. Ah, the righteousness of youth. James took in the dense sheaf of Staples boxes, waiting to be folded; took in the bare walls, the stacked diplomas and photographs.
“What the fuck is this?” he demanded.
“Emergency leave,” Lyle answered with a dismissive wave. “I’ve had a family crisis. I’m afraid I have to attend to it. Professor Chole will be taking over my workload for the remainder of the semester, I’m sure she’ll be in touch—"
“What did you do to Darby? What the fuck did you do?” James spoke with the husky, quaking tone of pure adrenaline. He was just barely restraining himself from lunging across the desk, Lyle realized. He took the younger man in with bemused calm. He let the moment stretch out.
“Therese called me,” James continued, the words throttling out of him. “Darby’s roommate. She came home last night, she has—bruises, all over her, little, little *bites—*she won’t speak, she just sits there and cries, but she said your name. It’s the only thing she said. What did you do to her, Lyle? Did you rape her?”
“Dr. Hereford,” Lyle replied.
James craned forward. “What?”
*“*You don’t get to call me Lyle.”
Lower, now, almost a whisper: “Tell me what you did to her.”
“I made her come,” Lyle said. “And she fucking loved it.”
James did lunge then, he screamed and he leapt across the desk, coming down on Lyle in a tangle of thrashing limbs and rabbit punches, the two of them toppling Lyle’s chair, compressing awkwardly into the tight space between desk and wall. James kicked hard off of the gray metal drawers, managing to end up on top. His hands found Lyle’s throat and began to squeeze. Lyle felt himself constricting, felt the energy draining out of him, pinned, as he lost oxygen. He noticed the curds of spittle at the corners of James’s snarling mouth. He started to see spots in the periphery of his vision, and as he slapped ineffectually at James’s face he thought am I going to die here—?
Lyle dug down for the last of his strength. The Word chose me. This wasn’t the end. Couldn’t be the end. He extended his leg as far as it would go, and used the distance to drive his knee, hard, into James’s crotch. A grunting exhale was propelled out of the younger man*.* Lyle pulled back to do it again; James squeezed his thighs together to block, and when he did, he compromised his balance. He took one hand off Lyle’s throat and thrust out his arm to catch himself as be began to roll, allowing Lyle to draw in a long, ragged breath.
Then Lyle spoke the Word.
The der zorn-Word.
The word that meant anger, that meant rage, that meant WRATH.
#
“Son. Son, you’re bleeding, let me—let me help you, come on. Son, it’s gonna be okay, come on, now— “
The campus policeman approaches James like a dog that might be rabid, that slow hunched posture with arms wide, except for the policeman it’s only one arm because his right hand is flush up against his service weapon and his thumb snaps the little thumbsnap and it’s a very small noise but it’s so loud in James’s head and he shakes it, his head, does James, from side to side, in herks and jerks, like a dog that might be rabid, now, like there’s water in his ears and he’s trying to shake it out, is James, and the policeman is coming on and speaking in clear precise syllables that explode behind James’s temples, clusterbomb-words, and the cop is speaking but he’s hearing another voice, is James, and it’s Lyle’s voice, it’s Dr. L’s voice, not Lyle never Lyle, and Dr. L’s voice is saying snakebit you’re snakebit she fucking LOVED it and James touches his own face now and it must be true because there’s blood on his face and when he blinks his blink is heavy and liquid like he just dropped Visine in there but the thing is but only but except it’s blood and he’s bleeding from the eyes, is James, and now the policeman is right on top of him saying “son what happened can you hear me respond if you can hear me” and James hears the exploding words all right and he blinks and blood oozes from the corners of his eyes and the cop is changing now, in the blood, his face is BOILING and now it’s Darby’s face on the policeman and she opens her mouth and her head cranes back and she’s ruined inside OH FUCK SHE’S RUINED INSIDE SHOT HERSELF SHE SHOT HERSELF SHE’S SHOT and now it’s DR L IT’S DR L SCREAMING SNAKEBIT SNAKEBIT SNAKEBIT—
James rears back and head-butts the campus cop as hard as he can, the smooth acne-less center of James’s forehead connecting with the soft cartilage of the policeman’s nose. A sick crunch echoes in the lobby of the Humanities building, a young woman close enough to hear it vomits on the floor, it is the first puking incident of the day but not the last.
The cop recoils with a sick moan, in his surprise clapping his hands to his shattered nose; in that moment James bellows, an awful inarticulate animal sound of hate, and yanks the policeman’s service piece free of his holster.
The handful of rubbernecking students freeze as James shoots the policeman in the face.
The policeman’s name is (was) Lou, the students know, and he is (was) genial and well-liked. A silent second passes in the lobby, and then the screaming begins.
James dips down and pulls two spare clips out of Lou’s belt. He pockets them. When James looks up, he doesn’t see fleeing students.
He sees Dr. L.
A gaggle of Dr. L’s. A school, a clutch, a murder. He sees laughing Dr. L’s running in every direction, diving behind furniture, breaking for the street or hurtling into the stairwells. One Dr. L dives behind the reception desk. James starts after him on wooden legs.
When he reaches the desk, there is Dr. L beneath it, a cell phone in his hand, cackling. James shoots him in the stomach. Dr. L keeps right on laughing, howling with it now, whatever it is must be hilarious, a real knee-slapper, then James remembers its him, Dr. L is laughing at him so James shoots him again, shoots him so he’ll stop but there are so many more—
#
Lyle Hereford, Ph.D., rested his browning forearms on the wrought iron railing of his third-floor balcony. He looked out over the Gulf of Mexico. The breeze was warm and gentle, suffusing, but it no longer calmed him. He took no notice of it. He was lost, as he was always now lost, in thought.
The one, lone thought.
It had taken a little less than two weeks for James’s horrific shooting spree to drop out of the news. The demands for GUN CONTROL NOW (or, conversely, for guns in every classroom) receded and were shelved for the next go-round. Politicians took to the field and unfurled their heraldry for the usual pro-forma skirmishes. Then, mercifully, a Cabinet official fucked somebody he really shouldn’t have and the national discourse (such as it was) barreled off, like a dog chasing a ball that its owner had only pretended to throw. As to why a handsome, popular, well-adjusted student should suddenly snap and murder sixteen of his fellows? The theories ranged from medically reasonable (an inoperable tumor which could not be verified via autopsy, as James’s brains had been removed by the responding tactical unit); to the paranoiac (James had been the subject of a Manchurian Candidate-style CIA/NSA/Acronym-of-your-choice experiment gone horribly wrong); to the Occult (the Devil made him do it).
Lyle had enjoyed that last one.
What Lyle had not enjoyed was that some of the conspiracy theorists, and even some of the legitimate press, had mentioned him by name. He had disappeared, after all, on an auspicious and chaotic day, to manage a crisis no one could verify involving a family no one could find. It had not been difficult to remain ahead of any enterprising investigators, though. Not with the Words.
And there had been so many more Words. Words in French and Finnish and Russian and Spanish and Mandarin. Words that meant envy and silence and fear and blindness and, perhaps the most potent yet, a Word that meant stupid. Lyle had employed that one against a statie who pulled him over as he crossed the Louisiana line, coming through Vicksburg. The guy had been six-two, maybe two-twenty, with sharp, curious eyes sunk deep in his skull. Lyle hadn’t liked the way he had looked at him, so he used the Word. Now the statie—*Edmonds was his name, Trooper Edmonds—*was six-two, two-twenty of drooling simpleton, probably staring at a wall somewhere in the nearest brain injury ward and driving the resident neurologists absolutely bugshit.
By the time Lyle made it to a quiet, lazy town on the Cajun Riviera and decided to set a spell, he had traded in his Acura for a Beemer and was carrying close to a hundred and twelve thousand dollars in cash. He had also acquired a 9mm Ruger and a shotgun with a pistol grip (the dealer had called it a snake charmer just before Lyle killed him).
None of that matters now, though.
All that mattered was the Word. Which, he had come to realize, was the last Word.
Because the book was alive, of course, had always been alive, Lyle knew that. Hadn’t let himself come right out and say it, but he knew. It had slept, maybe, possibly, until he woke it, with his touch, with his blood, but if it slept, it woke up thirsty*.* The book was always ready with the next Word, the next thing he would need. The book was collaborating with him. It was dancing with him, and at first he had thought he was the one leading, but now he knew better.
Lyle felt it. Felt it—pulling on him. All the time. Felt it in the room behind him, pulling, knew that he would go back in, sooner or later, go back in, and open the book, the book that has been leading him. Knew that he would open its hundreds of pages, because it was longer now, because it had grown, because it was three inches thick and the front plating had vanished and it wasn’t pretending to be a dictionary anymore.
He knew that he would open it and on every single page, centered, would be a single Word, the last Word, the Word that he will say, that he must say, sooner or later, and under it swirling in blood, blood that must be the book’s own, the final explication, the final command, the final meaning, and God, oh God, Lyle was afraid, because the last Word was
DOOR

Been playing on and off for a few years. Mostly in scrambles for company events, or to hang out and drink beer with buddies. Maybe 4-5 rounds a year. This year due to some medical issues I've abandoned a few of my other hobbies and have decided that golf is the thing. First time I've tried to actually get better at it instead of just showing up and swinging a club. I'm participating in a golf league with people at the company once a week. Hitting 9 holes right after work. I'm also hitting a bucket of balls a week before the league as practice time. Then a few Saturdays a month I'm playing 18 at various courses around town. I've gotten close to breaking 100 a few times, but I'm usually in the 115 range on 18 holes.
I made myself a deal that if I could play 9 holes and not lose my ball, I would get a new set of clubs. Well last week I played 9 holes and didn't lose my ball. Still shot a 53 on 9, and was often playing from the wrong fairway, but I didn't lose the ball. I'm currently playing with a second hand set of "Cougars" I found on Craigslist in '16 or so. I think I might have paid $100 for the full set and the bag. I also have a borrowed stiff shafted Callaway driver in the bag that is on loan from a friend. After I shot a 66 and lost 2 balls last night, I'm thinking it's not the clubs fault. Biggest issues are not getting off the tee box well (mostly slices in a big way), followed closely by anything lower than ~6 iron. I can hit the 7 up and the putter acceptably; Not great, but acceptably.
While I probably need clubs at this point, I'm thinking I might get more mileage from a few lessons first. Find someone that can analyze what I'm doing and help me make some corrections in what is clearly bad form. I started googling and found a dizzying array of places to get lessons, as well as people to get them from. I live in Southern, IN, but work over near the airport, so pretty much the entire city is OK, but closer to home is maybe better?!?!
Anyone have a reccomendation on a decent coach/instructor?

Does anyone have rentals in high HOA/country club communities? I would imagine its way less common due to the monthly expenses likely to decrease profits and potentially limiting your rental pool by being in higher price range.
Here’s the scenario: considering buying a new build in a country club community that is in early stages of development. This would be for my primary residence for minimum of 2 years before turning it into a rental property, then rent until it makes sense to sell. I believe the home will appreciate well as the community fills out over the next few years. This is a private south Florida country club that has 2 golf courses and all the typical country club amenities. Also the club initiation fee ~$40,000 is being covered by the builder, and initiation fees scheduled to increase as the community develops. (Similar clubs in the area are 75-150k initiation).
My concern would be commanding enough rent to cover expenses due to high hoa and membership fees. (Everything is pretty new so no real comps to judge rental prices). Anyone have experience renting these types of properties?
also if there are better subreddits to ask this on please let me know!

Awhile back I made a post about how powerful Percy and how powerful he is. If you want you can view it here. This is a part two of sorts and will feature:
Corrections to the original post, a debunk, Curse of Achilles, and Eye of Nekhbet, Tl;dr end.
Correction:
I said that the explosion from the Mt. Saint Helens nearly killed him. However I reread this feat after it was pointed out that it was the exertion of power, not the explosion that nearly killed him. First the feat:

Afterward, I could never describe what happened. An explosion, a tidal wave, a whirlwind of power simultaneously catching me up and blasting me downward into the lava. Fire and water collided, superheated steam, and I shot upward from the heart of the volcano in a huge explosion, just one piece of flotsam thrown free by a million pounds of pressure. The last thing I remember before losing conscious was flying, flying so high Zeus would never have forgiven me, and then beginning to fall, smoke and fire and water streaming from me. I was a comet hurtling toward the earth. The Battle of the Labyrinth

Howerever, if you go forward a little bit you will read this.

That’s the last thing I wanted him to say. I hadn’t been in control of myself in that mountain. I’d released so much energy I’d almost vaporized myself, drained all the life out of me. The Battle of the Labyrinth

It drained him so much that he described it as draining him more than anything else he's ever done:

“Holy Poseidon,” I muttered. I looked as if I’d lost twenty pounds I couldn’t afford to lose. On the other hand, I really was weak. I couldn’t stay on my feet more than a few hours. Whatever I’d done in Mount St. Helens had drained me like nothing else I’d ever expected. The Battle of Labyrinth

However that wasn't an effect of the explosion, rather an effect from causing the explosion. So that increases his durability past what I originally said. Which I will recalculate after the next correction:
Percy reacting to the bullets. First, the quote:

They stepped from the trees on either side of the road. Instead of gray camouflage, they were now wearing blue New Mexico State Police uniforms...They drew their handguns The first skeleton fired. Time slowed down. I won't say I could see the bullet, but I could feel its path, the same way I felt water currents in the ocean. I deflected it off the edge of my blade and kept charging. Zoe and Bianca fired at their heads point-blank Six skeletons raised their guns. The other five came forward with batons. Fifty feet away. Forty feet... The other skeletons opened fire. I raised my lion coat for protection, but I didn't need it.
The Titan's Curse

Something I didn't think about was that the were equipped with New Mexico State Police equipment. Since they were using their gear, they were either using Smith & Wesson .357/.45 or the Glock 22/31. They both have have firing speed of 370-375 m/s.
The calculation for this feat was done here. u/FalseTrajectory calculated that it would require a reaction of 10.7 milliseconds to react to this speed. Which is a bit more inline with his lighting reaction feat. Which would require a reaction speed of 16 milliseconds.
Now for a corrected scaling. Here is what I originally said:

Scaling: So for durability, City level. While surviving the St. Helens explosion was impressive, it nearly killed him and Calypso had to nurse him back to health. Physical Strength is 4-5 tons. More than likely higher. Speed is also impressive and he is capable of running at well above peak human. His skills can't be scaled but are impressive. For his actual powers. He is definitely small mountain level. However, this one is debatable.
My First Post

For reaction, which I forgot to mention at all, I will say 10-16 milliseconds. Keep in mind that the average human can react at 250 milliseconds
And for the durability, it is getting buffed from city level to volcano level. I am going to move up to volcano level. The reason: he was still able to destroy Mt. Saint Helens. Mt. Saint Helens is a stratovolcano. They can get as tall as 10,000 feet (3048 meters). Mt. Saint Helens caps out at 9,677 feet (2,950 meters). The average volcano is 10000 ft or 3048 meters. So for that, I can say with confidence that he is volcano level.
And now, a debunk that is going to get me some hate: Percy can't blood bend. Yes, I know about him controlling the poison in Tartarus. And yes, he did that through controlling the water in the poison. However, he hasn't been shown to be able to control blood. And to be honest, we never will. I know it is a logical and easy jump to make, but for now that is only theoretical.
Next, Curse of Achilles Percy.
Since this is a amplified version of Percy, because of this, he scales above all of the previously mentioned feats. Although, an argument could be made that HoO feats shouldn't count, I say they should considering that was a Percy without the Curse, which amplifies his powers.
Some feats for this version of Percy:

It was the stupidest thing I've ever done. A hundred muskets fired at me, point blank. All of them missed. I crashed into their line and started hacking with Riptide. Bayonets jabbed. Swords slashed. Guns reloaded and fired. Nothing touched me. I whirled through the ranks, slashing redcoats to dust, one after the other. My mind went on autopilot: stab, dodge, cut, deflect, roll. Riptide was no longer a sword. It was an arc of pure destruction. I broke through the enemy line and leaped into the black chariot. Hades raised his staff. A bolt of dark energy shot toward me, but I deflected it off my blade and slammed into him. The god and I both tumbled out of the chariot. The next thing I knew, my knee was planted on Hades's chest. I was holding the collar of his royal robes in one fist, and the tip of my sword was poised right over his face. Silence. The army did nothing to defend their master. I glanced back and realized why. There was nothing left of them but weapons in the sand and piles of smoking, empty uniforms. I had destroyed them all. Hades swallowed. "Now, Jackson, listen here. . . ." He was immortal. There was no way I could kill him, but gods can be wounded. I knew that firsthand, and I figured a sword in the face wouldn't feel too good. "Just because I'm a nice person," I snarled, "I'll let you go. But first, tell me about that trap!" Hades melted into nothing, leaving me holding empty black robes. I cursed and got to my feet, breathing heavily. Now that the danger was over, I realized how tired I was. Every muscle in my body ached. I looked down at my clothes. They were slashed to pieces and full of bullet holes, but I was fine. Not a mark on me.
The Last Olympian

While he thinks that they were all missing, they were actually hitting him. He was just not registering it, and not only that, besides his clothes, he was unharmed.
He was temporarily able to fight Hyperion. Even causing the air to get charged with ozone:

I concentrated on the tidal wave and forced it to reverse. Just before impact, I jumped upward on a jet of water. "AHHHHH!" The waves smashed into Hyperion and he went under, his light extinguished. I landed on the lake's surface just as Hyperion struggled to his feet. His golden armor was dripping wet. His eyes no longer blazed, but they still looked murderous. "You will burn, Jackson!" he roared. Our swords met again and the air charged with ozone.
The Last Olympian

He was able to fight with Kronos and survive hits that shook the Williamsburg Bridge:

I met his first strike with Riptide. The impact shook the entire bridge, but I held my ground. Kronos's smile wavered. With a yell, I kicked his legs out from under him. His scythe skittered across the pavement. I stabbed downward, but he rolled aside and regained his footing. His scythe flew back to his hands.
The Last Olympian

He was even able to tank hits that break the cables of said bridge and was only mildly disorientated:

He struck the bridge with the butt of his scythe, and a wave of pure force blasted me backward. Cars went careening. Demigods—even Luke's own men—were blown off the edge of the bridge. Suspension cords whipped around, and I skidded halfway back to Manhattan. I got unsteadily to my feet.
The Last Olympian

Get sent back 300 yards (900 feet) by a blast from Hyperion with enough force to break every bone is his body if it weren't for the Curse of Achilles:

A wall of force slammed me through the air—just like the trick Kronos had pulled on the bridge. I sailed backward about three hundred yards and smashed into the ground. If it hadn't been for my new invulnerability, I would've broken every bone in my body.
The Last Olympian

The average 15 year old weighs 123.5 lb. (56.02 kg). It takes 4,000 N or 899.2358 ibs to break a human femur (it is the strongest bone in the human body and the impact would have broken all of his bones). That means he flew at a minimum of 3000 m/s. With this knowledge, we can calculate that the impact or 413172 pounds of force.
He was able to kill a Gorgon with a single slice of Riptide and later knock out another Gorgon with a single hit from a silver platter:

Gah!” Euryale stormed toward her sister. Percy took the opening. He grabbed Stheno’s platter, scattering poisoned Cheese ’n' Wieners, and slashed Riptide across Euryale's waist, cutting her in half. He raised the platter, and Stheno found herself facing her own greasy reflection. “Medusa!” she screamed. Her sister Euryale had crumbled to dust, but she was already starting to re-form, like a snowman un-melting. “Stheno, you fool!” she gurgled as her half-made face rose from the mound of dust. “That’s just your own reflection! Get him!” Percy slammed the metal tray on top of Stheno’s head, and she passed out cold.
The Son of Neptune

The same Gorgons was unscaved by a hit from a truck in the fast lane and getting dragged for a hundred yards:

“Gotcha!” shrieked Euryale. Percy turned as an arrow thudded into her forehead. Euryale tumbled into the fast lane. A truck slammed into her and carried her backward a hundred yards, but she just climbed over the cab, pulled the arrow out of her head, and launched back into the air…
The Son of Neptune

The average speed limit of a highway in California is 55m/h or 88.5139 k/h. The most common car to drive one the west coast of the US is the Toyota Tacoma. These can weigh anywhere from 3,915 to 4,550 lbs. Or 1775.8141 Kg to 2063.845. With all this knowledge we can calculate the force of impact would be around 263933 to 306742 lbf.
Eye of Nekhbet:
Being Nekhbet's Avatar gave him the access to thousands of years of knowledge:

Thousands of years of memories flooded my mind. I saw pyramids rising from the desert, the sun glittering on the Nile River. I heard priests chanting in the cool shadows of a temple, and smelled myrrh incense on the air. I soared over the cities of Ancient Egypt, circling the palace of the pharaoh. I was the vulture goddess Nekhbet—protector of the king, shield of the strong, scourge of the weak and dying.
Crown of Ptolemy

He is able to see on multiple layers of reality:

I saw layers of reality, like strata of glowing multicolored jelly, plunging down into infinity. On the surface, where the mortal and immortal worlds met, Setne was whipping the Duat into a storm—churning waves of color and frothy white plumes of smoke.
Crown of Ptolemy

He has enhanced strength:

I hefted the sword. Like so many I’d tried, it didn’t feel right in my hands. The hilt was too heavy for my wrist. The single-edged blade was curved awkwardly, like a giant hook knife. I tried a jab and nearly lost my balance. “This one doesn’t look like yours,” I told Carter. “Isn’t yours called a kopis?” “Mine is a khopesh,” Carter said. “The original Egyptian version. What you’re holding is a kopis…
Crown of Ptolemy (pre Eye of Nekhbet)
Setne, drop the crown.” I raised my kopis, which didn’t feel heavy with Nekhbet’s power flowing through me.
Crown of Ptolemy (post Eye of Nekhbet)

His reaction time is enhanced even further:

Thanks to Nekhbet, I realized what was going to happen a split second before it did, which saved our lives.
Crown of Ptolemy

He can tank an explosion capable of leveling a soccer field:

He strutted around the soccer field an black bell-bottomed slacks, a frilly white shirt, and a glittery purple trench coat-all of which clashed with his newly combined red and white crown.
Crown of Ptolemy
A ring of fire exploded outward from Setne.
A shell of purple light surrounded me, and the flames rolled harmlessly over translucent wings that that now extended on either side of me.
The Crown of Ptolemy
The fire blackened the entire field, instantly turning wet mud into steaming cracked clay.
The Crown of Ptolemy

The fire was so hot that it melted Celestial Bronze:

My new sword was a steaming line of bronze slag on the ground.
The Crown of Ptolemy

This Percy can fly:

Before Setne could finish casting his spell, I grabbed him in my spectral claws and carried him into the sky
The Last Olympian

Tl;dr: Percy has volcano level durability. He also volcano level powers. He can lift up 4-5 tons. He is faster than peak human. His skill is amazing.
Curse of Achilles Percy is even more powerful than base Percy so should be able to be moved up, however we never get the chance to see this (at its fullest) as Rick takes this away because it was to OP.
Eye of Nekhbet Percy is honestly, in my opinion, more powerful and has greater variety than CoA Percy.And of course, this is perhaps the most experienced Percy we see. However, Percy once again has this power taken away before it can be used to its fullest.
What are your thoughts? Has this post made you see Percy as weaker or stronger than you did before? What are your thoughts? Finally, who should I scale next?
Respect the Son Of The Sea, Percy Jackson!

With LIV going all around the world with their golf tournaments, I've been thinking how cool it would be to see a BIG PGA tournament outside the US and UK. If the Tour wants to continue to grow the game and draw more fans why not create a 5th major that can be played internationally in Europe, Africa, Australia, or Asia?
​
It would be cool to see some new courses and Tour players playing internationally outside of the Ryder Cup, President's Cup, and Olympics. We have all the other tours in these countries and Tour players going back to their countries to play in some of these tournaments and some tournaments like the ZOZO and Mexico Open, but those don't get the type of field a major does. How great would it be to see all the top players in a new country drawing in a whole new group of fans?
​
*Edited England to UK.

I am currently using this
Toro Recycler 22 in. Briggs & Stratton SmartStow Personal Pace High-Wheel Drive Gas Walk Behind Self Propelled Lawn Mower 21465 - The Home Depot
I have done all of the tune up stuff air filter, etc but my house backs up to a golf course and I guess we get spillover ferts? The grass in my back yard is really really thick & it grows insanely fast. It is a small lot...3k sf home but on almost a zero lot line. We are the end house so our lot is a bit larger. I can post measurements when I get home but I have been debating on buying a new mower. I can't get below a certain level (next to highest cut) without the clippings getting all gummed up and the bag not working bc the grass stays wet somehow even though the ground isnt wet the grass stays well hydrated and the mower sputters out due to the thickness. It isn't a clean cut even though I keep new blades on it...Do I need to take it in for a professional tune-up or do I need to up the power? Maybe try tune up and if that doesn't work up the power. Secondarily what push mowers would you all recommend? Yard is too small for a riding mower.

I’m 21(m) looking for activities to do in Wiesbaden. I’m from Finland and work here the whole summer. Unfortunately I currently speak german very little and don’t know anyone from here besides my collegues.
I’m really into golf, swimming and basicly any sports in general. Like live music and of course partying. Always up to new challenges and wanting to experience new things.
Would you have any suggestions what to do here on spare time and weekends? Thanks in advance!!

Wondering if there is a good place to take a beginner who has been hitting at the range, but hasn’t played many actual rounds of golf. Preferably somewhere where a twosome can play alone? Even any executive par-3 style courses that are open to the public? I am new to the area so I haven’t played any of the courses around here.

Any players in the Alamogordo/Las Cruces New Mexico area? It's been a few years since I've played but looking to get back in to ASL.

Hello friends! The story is my timing belt broke on me WHILE I was driving it (around 40 mph). Needless to say I thought the head was done for so I bought a 1.9 alh tdi golf which I’m loving. I hadn’t gotten rid of the Jetta in hopes my valves were not bent and I could just replace the timing belt. Today I dismantled everything, took the camshaft out and revealed the valves. They all seem to be not bent and normal looking. I’m still learning all there is to learn about VW so my question to you all is 1: what other damage besides the valves can I check for? and 2: if I put a new timing belt (of course water pump, tensioner, etc) will she be running again?