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Atlanta, Georgia I was standing at the rear of the driving range, desperately trying to unhook my driver. My brow furrowed, my teeth locked, my eyes staring holes through the latest and greatest invention, a thing about the size of a VW but nowhere near as reliable, I muttered beneath my breath. "Straighten out, you miserable son of a..." Suddenly, I was no longer alone. I paused in mid-curse and slowly rose and turned my head. An old golfing buddy, with whom I had partnered for years in various and sundry attempts at mediocrity, stood there and looked at me as though he had never seen me before. "What's up?" I asked gingerly. I worry often, not only about him but nearly all of the loyal group that gathers daily at the club to mix and match. We play for 20 bucks, never more, a bastardized Stableford game that puts all of us on nearly equal footing, regardless of handicap. I worried because slowly they – not I – were getting older and, one by one, slipping. They hurt, each of them, somewhere. Feet, knees, hips, backs, oh yes, backs, lots of backs. And occasionally, minds. One or two during the years have gone into the woods after an errant drive and wandered aimlessly, suddenly wondering why. It's something that concerns each of us but we are always calmed by the ever-present line: "Don't worry, you will never know. You get Alzheimers, and it's we who will do the worrying." And so as I looked at him looking at me, the thought crossed my mind that he didn't have a clue who I was. He stepped closer, still staring at my face. "Sorry," he said, "I just need to check something out." "What the hell is wrong with you?" I blustered, assured that he was the same old fool I'd known forever. "Well, you see, I got that HDTV we talked about, finally got the damn thing and I wish I hadn't". He stared closer, studying. "Set it up yesterday, took all day. That picture is so freaking clear, it's astonishing, really is." "Then your problem is...?" "That's why I'm looking at you so close," he chuckled, "see if my eyes are as good as those cameras. I mean, I watched your show last night and I saw, well, things on your face I never knew you had! Wish I hadn't gotten the damn thing now. Strange. Not only you but people I used to think were attractive, no offense. It's tainted me." It is, as anyone in the industry can tell you, a remarkable and yet curious blessing, this high definitionary. Find a makeup person and ask how the job has changed in the last few years because of HD. Find a set designer. Everything is, well, so highly-defined now. And because of the lighting, it is almost clearer than real life. Ask my friend. I told him they had drawn in the crow's feet and brow-lines on purpose to give me maturity. "Look, see?" I said, getting up close and personal, "ain't no lines here." "Dunno if I'm buying that, Huber," he mumbled. "Go back to work. We're paired together today. At least I think we are. Can't remember for sure." It had been 15 minutes since the teams were set. If only our minds could be HD. Author, producer and writer Jim Huber spent 16 award-winning years at CNN. His accolades include an Emmy for his writing during the 1996 Olympic Park bombing in Atlanta and the Edward R. Murrow award for excellence in writing. |
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