#it's actually from part 3 of the diamond casino heist

[gaychievementhunter]

“We’re going to where Michael died when he first joined” sounds like a peak immortal fahc quote

[huntersolar781]

Drivers Diamond

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Filed under probably not coming to a retail store near you, TaylorMade and Callaway, the market leaders in the driver category both have new models on the USGA’s Conforming Clubs list this week.

As per usual, the USGA doesn’t provide the measure of specificity we’d like, and so while we wait to hear back from both companies, all we can do is speculate.

TaylorMade SIM Tour

Missing among a 3-deep sea of SIMs at retail this season was a SIM Tour. For the past several generations of drivers, TaylorMade has offered an undersized tour head in the 430-440 cc range. With three drivers in the lineup and golfers still clinging to the myth that TaylorMade has too many SKUs or updates its driver lineup every six months (it doesn’t – hasn’t in years), it made sense not to offer a small driver at retail. Given a choice between a wee-headed, low spin, low MOI Tour head and a high MOI draw-biased head, the numbers say SIM MAX D was the smarter choice for the mass market.

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As I said, it’s speculative, but given how TaylorMade has used the Tour designation recently, the odds are that this is the sub-460 model missing from January’s launch.

Whether or not the SIM Tour comes to retail likely hinges on whether the company feels there’s a legitimate hole in the SIM driver lineup or extending the lineup as a means to keep SIM fresh in our minds would boost sales.

SIM has been the #1 Driver at retail this year. That would suggest there’s no real urgency to extend the lineup. That said, with the chaos of COVID-19 and reports that Callaway is gaining share in the driver category, anything it possible.

My 2 cents, I’d love to see it offered.

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UPDATE: We’ve heard back from TaylorMade. Nothing to see here, in the most literal sense. The difference between the TaylorMade SIM Tour and the standard model isn’t size, it’s purely cosmetic. The TaylorMade logo alignment aid on the crown has been removed from the Tour model. Apparently there’s someone who wants to play a TaylorMade SIM, but doesn’t want to look at the logo. Speculate away.

Callaway MAVRIK Sub Zero (version 4) – LS (Three Diamonds)

Elinchrom driver download for windows 7. For those of you trying to count the number of Mavrik offerings that have cleared the USGA, might I suggest you take at least one of your socks off. Honda electron driver download windows 7. You’re not going to get it done with fingers alone. By my count, excluding the left-handed offerings, SZ LS Diamond Diamond Diamond makes lucky 13 for the Mavrik family. That’s not Callaway flooding that market (most aren’t’ actually on the market). Instead, it represents Callaway designing for a narrower golfer specification.

Renowned for their low spin performance and neutral to fade-biased weighting, Callaway’s Diamond offerings have a small cult following among golfers who knew where to look for them.

Like the SIM Tour, an LS Triple Diamond isn’t likely to be a major boon for Callaway at retail, but you may very well see the company release the head in limited numbers to select accounts – and not say too much about it. That’s what it did with the Epic Flash Sub Zero Triple Diamond, so it stands to reason it might take a similar approach with the Mavrik.

The Market for Sub-460 Tour Heads

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Like the Titleist TS4, which did come to retail, both the SIM Tour and the Mavrik Sub Zero LS Triple Diamond are designed for a small niche of the market. As center of gravity locations have pushed lower and deeper, their use has declined. Even on the PGA Tour, the overwhelming majority of golfers play 460cc driver heads.

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Smaller heads might fit 10% of the market, though 5% is likely the more reasonable estimate.

It remains to be seen what the future holds for either of these models and whatever undersized models follow them in the future, but there’s little doubt that the equipment industry is slowly evolving towards more specialized designs.

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As custom fitting, particularly in the driver category, continues to grow, it makes sense to put these specialized parts in the hands of select fitters who understand how to maximize their benefit for the admittedly small percentage of the market for whom an undersized, low spin, lower MOI tour design works.

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More info as it becomes available.

[shivatheoutlaw]

Over the very saturated, polluted and muddy expanse of the Ganga in Kolkata, runs the Howrah Bridge. Although hyped by many self - proclaimed “bridge historians” (you read that right) as a good example of fine engineering, the cantilever and the projected joints always looked to me to be comparable to cheap asbestos, or at the very least, the silver knock off hazy aluminum ring that my gardener would wear with a huge ass glass diamond, which he would shine every morning with toothpaste. I was just mentally getting accustomed to accepting that in life, when another realization hit me – it looked to me like it was the first prototype of the game “Mechanix”. Tough luck for someone from Kolkata. Most children my age were raised to be in awe of it as well. So was I, but this wouldn’t be interesting if I yielded now would it. Now that I think about it, I never did ooze loyalty to the city like so many others. Infact, I thought I was the best product to ever come out of it, which believe me, is saying a lot. But the food was undeniable. I scowled at my producer as the car approached the bridge. I’d been talked into coming into this confluence of pseudo philosophical dhoti wearing, weed smoking, know it all, so called artistic hippie culture. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a one hundred percent advocate of smoking the ol’ doobie. It’s this holier than thou attitude of today’s young Kolkataiites that irks me to no end. Moreover, I find the degradation of quite simply one of the most euphonious and saccharine cultures in India, plainly indigestible. The higher you rise, the harder you fall, I guess. Just wearing a loose saffron colored kurta, with Om written all over it in red, growing out the beard, and talking Freud and singing Tagore, along with protesting every now and then doesn’t make anyone anymore philosophical than the life expectancy of Schrodinger’s cat. I, myself being one of them hated the fact that they weren’t anything similar. The fact that I had to come here all smiles, and talk about the culture, the food and the people, just made my mind itch with the need to say all of the above on camera, which I couldn’t because, well, contract, so fuck logic. Also, it’s good money for just talking, travelling, eating and drinking, with an occasional whiff of Idukki Gold, just to keep things interesting for me and myself a role model for the kids at home. To those of you with moral spidey senses tingling, relax, I’m kidding. Why would I take an occasional whiff of the stuff when I can smoke it everyday? Don’t get me wrong, I love Bengalis. Hell, I am one. I have taken rather a liking that they call us “Bongs” for some reason, need I say more? The 2016 Durga Puja, as you will see later in the book, was one of the most exhilarating experiences in my life, second only to another one which we will discuss in a while. But of the long list of things I find chronically capable of producing the ever eluding itch, the holier than thou attitude of my fellow brethren was fighting for a strong second. Anyway, on to the more relevant stuff. Now for those of you still wondering, the spontaneity portrayed in travel and food shows is choreographed more than an Ocean’s Eleven heist. The presenter talks to the host/chef/owner of establishment, etc. and is given innumerable chances to fuck it all up. The essence, as I mentioned earlier, of a place, can be surely found in its households, for there is created the actual, sensationally authentic ambrosia, passed down by muscle memory and word of mouth mantras from one generation to the next. It was to exploit the exceedingly pleasant results of these near congenital hand-me-downs, that I was going, or rather, was talked into going, to a Bengali household to sample (gorge) on the edible forms of godliness. Bengali cuisine is seraphic. It is one of the seven cordon bleus on which I find myself not requiring a second take on camera to talk about. Not difficult to find words when there’s plenty to gush over. The generous use of haldi or turmeric, as we know it, along with a little red chilly mix, specially prepared in an old stone mortar, salt, pepper, lemon and a generous toss of finely chopped coriander was only the marination for the rather unusually large pieces of fresh water Rohu fish that was but a part of the seven course meal that was being prepared. While my producer smirked at my constant attempts to steal glances at the food being prepared, his expression bellowing “I told you so”, we set up our cameras and crew for an interview with the man of the house, and later, his wife. “Good food”, he said, “is man’s best attempt to worship the Almighty. But what often defines good food is not the spices, not the cook, not the quality of the produce, or the place that you eat it in. No, what makes food good? What makes the final fruition of anything most satisfying? The time taken to grow the produce, the effort put in to cook it, and the hunger.” As I feigned my best expression showing my pseudo interest in what he had to say, my mind automatically locked on to those words. Hunger, time, and effort. Between snippets and pauses of “State of the Art”, Jim James, my mind began to put those three words into perspective, with, mind you, the music also playing in my head alongside the cerebration. What did it mean to actually work for food, such that you enjoy it even more when you finally eat it? No no, not the going out, earning money kind of work… but actually going out on a limb to find food when all you want to do is eat, and given the circumstances, that is the last thing possible. Perspective. Between my urge to get away from the family and live alone and unencumbered for a few days, I’d bawled my parents’ brains out into letting me spend a week with friends in Chennai. It was here that the above three words found perspective. It was also the reason I wasn’t even pretending to pay attention to the task at hand, because well, who’d recollect and narrate this particularly beguiling turn of events in the intervals of generous puffs particularly potent weed. The year was 2015. It was the start of my examination leave from work (I was interning with one of the “Big Four” accounting firms at the time, as was the diktat by the ICAI. I feel compelled to write that particular abbreviation in italics. Keep in mind, I do not want the reader to in any way imagine that it is because I think that it is of some significance… I want, rather, the reader to envision a sneer, and superimpose that feeling of spine, cervical and facial muscles onto the above mentioned abbreviation representing this bureaucratic confluence of biasness.) But I digress. For the lack of a better, readily available and remotely satisfactory arrangement at hand, and the immediate, unceremonious and prosaic start to my rather infinite syllabus of the Chartered Accountancy examination being the only alternative, which was restlessly propagated by my father, who, for the lack of a better explanation, had pretty much settled on the conclusion that no man required rest; give him books and he will study; give him teaching and he will excel, I booked a two-way economy class ticket to Chennai, for a week with my school friend SD, whose transformation from the typical controllable, hair partitioned school boy to a transgressive weed guru and ace computer programmer had earned my respect. Now remember, the timeline is non-existent, but the incidents themselves are well…interesting. Keeping that in mind, let’s get on with Chennai. I will not bore the reader with too much about the journey, which was quite uneventful; well, there was the guy who pushed his wife aside and hugged me instead when the aircraft went through some routine turbulence but that’s about it. About twenty minutes after landing at the Kamraj airport, I was greeted by my friend, and a few other soon to be mutuals. After gorging at the nearest pizza diner ( which was by no means near), we went to his place for the night. The next day we left for Pondicherry. My first time visiting. Pondicherry is the very embodiment of a place that beckons you to get out; to not sit at home, or laze around, or sit in front of your laptop, binge streaming Netflix. No, it screams hope. Hope, that maybe if one gets out and takes a walk among the delightfully magnificent port town French colonial architecture, amid the smell of flowers out of season, not too strong, mixing with the faint whiff of sea breeze resulting in notoriously fantastic and romantic notions, one might actually walk into someone else, with hope. It mimics the same pertinacious results casinos achieve when players, reeling from artificial pheromones in the air conditioning, unintentionally draw unaffordable lines of credit. I’m talking about that kinda hope. Indefatigable. But look at the bright side. You do atleast, get some exercise in. Whether you meet your soulmate, cycling down the promenade, or not. I was on a similar solitary and introspective walk ( I didn’t know where to hire a cycle) myself, enjoying the sea breeze on the promenade while my friends slept off their alcohol induced high in the hotel; I had an incredibly high alcohol tolerance back then. While chatting with the owner of a street stall after sampling his fantastically delectable fresh prawns, marinated in chilly tandoori spices, grilled and served on a cut banana leaf to customers, I noticed a cycle for hire stand on the other side of the road, with only a cycle to spare. Seeing a long stretch of promenade ahead of me, I made my way to the billing counter to ask for a couple of hours’ rent for the cycle. “Combien pour 3 heures?”, a girl ran up to the counter ahead of me, just as I was about to finally get a cycle for rent. “Excuse me”, I began, “I was here first, and was just about to rent the cycle.” “Mais c'est urgent!!”, she exclaimed. “S'il vous plaît laissez-moi avoir le vélo!!” “Um…what? I’m sorry, my French is sketchy, at best.” “I am uh… really late for a party…?”, she seemed unsure of her English. Now before any of you, who are the quickest to judge, and I risk, most disinclined to empathize, I’d ended a quite intense relationship (oh trust me… we’ll come to that) and was on no account feeling charitable towards members of the opposite sex. “Well, since I got here first, and was about to rent it before you, I think I’m gonna take it.”, I said pretty coldly, coming off quite discourteous if I recollect correctly. “Oh come on uh…please!” “No.” I went over to the counter to pay. “You can atleast uh leave me?” “Hmph.” The girl was persistent, and well, there was a level beyond which I couldn’t feign anger. “Where to?” “The Du Parc Hotel, you have heard hm?” The ride was pretty much uneventful, and we arrived at the hotel in around twenty minutes. “Thank you for the ride uh…your name?” “Shivam. You’re welcome. Anyway, gotta get going.” “You have to go? It is a…um…open to all party…and we will get discount for couple!”, she sounded pretty spritely. I was thrown off track. I tend to get nervous when moments like these present themselves. I reminisced that my evening had begun with a simple walk, and here I was, in this um…situation. “Listen”, I began, but she was already talking to the concierge. “Come!” “What? Listen, I don’t even know your name!” “Ava. Now come, let’s go inside!” I think that in life, the truth about the end is not death. It is about the experiences that one goes through. The number of experiences, like Pokemon cards, determines the level of variety achieved in life. It is not about the paradigm of the experience, but rather the experience itself. It becomes essential, therefore, that one mustn’t be pinned to a particular paradigm of experiences. Take the good with the bad, or you might cloy; and above all remember, that nothing quite competes with simplicity. “Shivam! Get up man!” I was rather nonplussed at hearing SD’s voice. Still disoriented and with half my mind trying to recover from my inebriated stupor, I tried to make out what he was saying. “Hey man! You alright? I think you had a bit too much to smoke up.” “Whaa? Ava?” For someone who considers and takes pride in himself as a heavyweight in holding their drink, I was quite outdone by some exceedingly potent and undesirably good strain of marijuana. “Ava? Hahahahaha….dude get the fuck up hahahahaha…” The reader will not judge me, as I present in good faith that if you think you’ve done it all after trying the weed in Bombay, then you’ve got another thing coming. Well, atleast the dream was good while it lasted. But that is not what this is about. It is never about the eye of the storm. It is always about the aftermath. Aftermaths aren’t always bad. And when you get those ever worsening pangs of hunger after chimneying joints, a.k.a ze munchies, you know it gets better, because well, food right? “I’m hungry as fuck bro!” SD bellowed. “Let’s go out and get something to eat! Maybe we’ll also crash into some French chick called Ava hahahaha.” Did I exhort how I find my closest friends quite irksome? “Oh bite me.” “I’m hungry man let’s go and get something to eat!” “At four in the morning? Where do we get food?” It is here that I learned that good food is a matter of perspective. One might argue that there is nothing there is nothing contemporary about this particular observation. Of course, if you expend the better part of your reservoir on a few meals, they’re bound to be, they better be, few of the best meals you have sampled, because well, otherwise, what was the point? And ask yourself this, would you have spent so much on so little? On something that you don’t quite care for? And if you did, then wouldn’t you prefer that it wasn’t all for naught? It is this thinking that is often responsible for the jubilations on social media today. All the pictures of food uploaded, all the highly eulogized videos of nightlife experiences that viewers go into raptures about, and all the so called ‘vlogs’ about peoples’ highly publicized lives that all of us are so enamored with. But I ask the reader this: would you really pull out your camera and think about recording some occurrence, if it was really that frabjous? Or would you rather concentrate on the experience itself ? At this juncture, I quite fail to grasp whether social media has, in fact forced us to blur the line between the two possible explanations: did we forget to enjoy it because of social media or did we never really, in the first place? Or is it simply a case of priorities? That we infact, would rather have people think that we’re having a good time, at the cost of really having it? However, I digress. ​ Good food, is a matter of perspective. It is the hunger, time and effort that helps shape that perspective. “Finally!” said SD stopping the car at a dingy corner of the promenade at quarter to five in the morning. “Shiv, I’m effin hungry man.” The sea looked quite menacing to me at the early hours of the morning. It wasn’t particularly turbulent, but the view of the sea from behind the edge of the promenade, with a glimmering reflection of the moon and the gust of cold whiffs of wind almost gave me an impending feeling of vertigo. Aftermath of the weed, I guess. I looked away and concentrated on the place we’d just arrived at. In the distance, between the imposing sea-faced buildings and quaint little French colonial architectural bistros, souvenir and flower shops, all closed this early in the day, stood a vendor with his fare in a glass box street cart which stood on four wheels, and behind which a makeshift, gas powered stove along with a sandwich press grill, to which I noticed quite a number of people, including morning walkers, fishermen who wanted to grab a quick snack before heading out, and ourselves, were flocking. A closer inspection revealed he was selling anda bhurji (a miscellany of eggs, spring onions, lemon juice, sautéed with green chilies in mustard oil, to which water was added with a sprinkle of turmeric for color) with sliced bread, marinated in pudina chutney and dried, and then lathered with butter and grilled to a crisp, along with the usual assortment of cold drinks in a freezer box on the ground, coffee, and cigarettes. We ordered the works, two times over to go, and as I unwrapped the torn aqueous paper packing of the bhurji and the crispy bread in the car I could have sworn that I must have swallowed over a dozen times in anticipation. As I scooped up some of the bhurji onto a piece of the glisteningly fatty bread, covered in reduced chutney and fried in butter, I could not remember any other experience that rivaled this one in terms of anticipation. I mean sure, I do love food, but I care for it when I’m actually eating it. Here, the foreplay was almost unbearable, and as I greedily took as much of the bread wrapped egg mélange, as fast as my mouth could take it, it did not matter that it was quite hot and burned my palate, as the juices and marination from the egg, chutney, the melted butter which played with your tongue as you breathed in, but only felt the air strike against the thin, yet warm coating of fat around it, the chilies, and the distinctive crunch of the onions, harmonized perfectly with the perpetual gustation. I can tell you that it was the most gratifying meal that I’ve ever had in my life, and an impulse to ensure that it wasn’t the last. Perspective. See what I mean? It was here indeed that I realized that the line between gourmet and comfort was, but imaginary, a meridian, if you will. I stole a look at the Howrah bridge from the window as I returned to the conversation with the host and his wife. My producer looked on, as though everything was going as per plan, oblivious, with no modicum of an inkling, that I was relying solely on muscle memory and timing to have an ineffectual conversation at best, while sampling the best seven course meal in Bengali cuisine that I’d had in sometime, my mind relishing the simple bhurji from Pondicherry.