First, as I've said, the couch is my office. Here I compose (or decompose, depending on one's point of view) my blogs, deliver my podcasts, read and what I like to call imagineering, but that Carol refers to "staring aimlessly into space as if you are dead." (Which may explain her occasional mirror check under my nose.) And, yes, it's where I occasionally catnap to recharge my creative juices, juices which do tend to pool up around the corners of my mouth.
As you can see, golf would be a wholesale disruption of such a smooth-functioning, well-oiled creative machine. First is the tee time, which adds a strict structure to the day. You have to change shoes four times, shop for balls and tees, and perhaps worst of all, introduce yourself to upwards of three total strangers, at least one of whom probably voted for Trump and plans to do so again.
I used to write about golf. I reviewed courses and equipment. I might as well have been reviewing neurosurgery for all I knew about those subjects. I once attended a golf equipment show as a "reporter." I examined and tested gear designed to improve your game. I tested a device that analyzed my swing using laser technology. The equipment representative had nothing to say about my swing, save that its outside-in, reverse-pivot, chicken-winged hack probably wouldn't work on a golf course, but I might have inadvertently given myself LASIK surgery in the process.