I woke up today to hooting and hollering and playful profanity, which means there’s some variation of golf backstage.

Whether it’s putt-putt, chip-putt, or, in today’s case, a platform target in the middle of a pond, nothing brings a touring party closer together than whacking things with sticks while under the influence of edible marijuana products.

I spend a solid half hour sending ball after ball to a watery grave. Somewhere in the mediation of place-thwack-repeat, it occurres to me - had Carlos Santana communicated with Metatron, the arch angel that supposedly told him to collaborate with Rob Thomas, while hacking away, seizure-like, with a fairway wood, right in this very spot? How many other titans of my industry have been not very good at sports on and around this beleaguered golf mat?

The thought brings me a brief comfort, then I dip gently back into existential crisis.