Take a look at this illustration. Take everything in.
It is the month of July 1995. As the 19th hole scuttles away, a passionate new god — slayer of divot balls and master of the St. Andrews Masters — the spiritual son of Meat Loaf with a putter in place of a mic stand (you can practically hear “Paradise by the Dashboard Light” echoing from his power stance), embraces his blonde-maned beaut on the playoff 18th, met in pursuit by a greenskeeper, followed a
Everything is as it should be. This is the world we wish to live in for the rest of our lives.
Unlike now, when detention camps provide foreign children with their first taste of freedom, seats in the Supreme Court hang in the balance, dictators are allies, and policy is law…
It’s garbage time. We are living in a rubbish era.
A serially stark-naked vigilante, within himself the golfer, the hole, and the caddy, celebrates a historic victory by the Long John, a man from the wrong side of the tracks who sat in the clubhouse awaiting his crown, but then faced with a worthy foe, retook the course for four more tees of greatness, ending in a 4-stroke victory, foregoing the stark-naked man to clutch his beloved, their windbreakers rust This is how a hero appears.
Today, there’s a rotund, orange clown with a more terrible haircut than Daly’s, the tip of his tie touching his mons pubis, converting opinion into reality and rejecting fact as fiction. Every photo he submits is garbage.
Not like in 1995, when emulsion sparked an unintended revival.
Or in 1995, when domestic terrorists bombed a city without Thunder, killing dozens of adults and nearly twenty babies.
In 1995, the New York Post and Times published a lunatic’s manifesto in order for him to cease exploding people with mail.
When the Chicago heat wave hit in 1995, there were 739 fewer people in attendance.
When the Juice was acquitted in 1995.
When the Tejano Madonna was shot in the back in 1995.
Everything was better in 1995 when this photo was taken than it is now.
… back in 1995…
…well, let’s just say it’s a waste of time.
Measuring a time to a time is not the same as measuring a time to a time. Now is a poor time. 1995 was not without its flaws. But there was a turning point in 1995. This exquisite moment, captured in a snapshot that no act of terror — foreign or domestic, executive or otherwise — can detract from. Triumph and grandeur linger in our minds longer than the dreadful and depressing. So let us go out and find those images from 2018, appreciate them, and save them in our scrapbooks of history. Perhaps in decades to come, we’ll be able to look back on something as wonderful as Daly’s victory at the British Open.
But, to be honest, it’s difficult to imagine.
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