Saturday, July 23, 2005
Party Golfing With A Purpose
Most of my Saturday was devoted to that most meaningless and humiliating of human endeavors: golf. It was time for the Bunker To Bunker Tour Event at Kierland Golf Course in far north Scottsdale, which thankfully was more about having fun and raising money for cystic fibrosis then about quality golf. See, quality golf was nowhere to be found in our foursome, but what a treat to play with these terrific phriends (and, I might add, readers of Parrothead Ramblings): Cheesehead, Pabla, and Eric of "Cheap Bastard" fame.
There was a bit more beer drinking and laughter than there was golf. I even carried along my handy Sirius Satellite Boom Box, which was booming out an old Buffett concert on Radio Margaritaville most of the game as we cruised along in our air conditioned golf cart. Now this was the way golf should be played.
Some of our Parrothead Phriends also volunteered their time to sit out there in that sweltering weather and raise cash for the cause. My Man Pimp Daddy was out there selling birdies on a Par 3, chilling it in the shade of his blue canopy. Since there was a snowball's chance in...well, Kierland, that we could make a birdie by swinging a club, somebody coughed up $20, we carded the bird, and off we went on to the next hole. The next hole was a Par 4 that paralleled Pimp Daddy's Par 3, which was on our right, over a hill and invisible from the tee box. I hit a screaming drive that headed straight down the fairway, then decided to hang a right for some dumbass reason and disappear over a mesquite tree. As luck would have it, the ball caromed off the roof of Pimp Daddy's canopy and was retrieved by another gracious Parrothead. Pimp Daddy didn't have a lot to say. He probably thinks I did it on purpose. Little does he know that I'm incapable of purposely directing a golf ball at pretty much any target. Well, besides the planet Earth.
The powers that be up at Kierland provide A/C on the carts, but then often restricted the cart to the path. The paths out there are virtually all elevated well above the fairway, which means you're hill climbing back to your cart all afternoon and in desperate need of that A/C. After a few cold brews, I found it much easier to fudge on the "no cart" rule. In fact, I ran over one of those little bastards, much to the amusement of Pabla, my cart partner.
By the time we hit 18, we were all pretty much done. Tired, cranky,dehydrated, and since we ran out of beer at 13, hung over. We finished somewhere between "also ran" and "ass kicked." We didn't have a prayer, since it takes a math professor with a mainframe to figure our astronomical handicaps. The tournament allowed a max of only 24, so we were spotting the good golfers several strokes right off the mark.
No big deal, though. We had a great time, raised a little money, and I still had a prize waiting for me. A "No Cart" sign jammed firmly into my golf bag byPabla a person(s) unknown.
I got that going for me.
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There was a bit more beer drinking and laughter than there was golf. I even carried along my handy Sirius Satellite Boom Box, which was booming out an old Buffett concert on Radio Margaritaville most of the game as we cruised along in our air conditioned golf cart. Now this was the way golf should be played.
Some of our Parrothead Phriends also volunteered their time to sit out there in that sweltering weather and raise cash for the cause. My Man Pimp Daddy was out there selling birdies on a Par 3, chilling it in the shade of his blue canopy. Since there was a snowball's chance in...well, Kierland, that we could make a birdie by swinging a club, somebody coughed up $20, we carded the bird, and off we went on to the next hole. The next hole was a Par 4 that paralleled Pimp Daddy's Par 3, which was on our right, over a hill and invisible from the tee box. I hit a screaming drive that headed straight down the fairway, then decided to hang a right for some dumbass reason and disappear over a mesquite tree. As luck would have it, the ball caromed off the roof of Pimp Daddy's canopy and was retrieved by another gracious Parrothead. Pimp Daddy didn't have a lot to say. He probably thinks I did it on purpose. Little does he know that I'm incapable of purposely directing a golf ball at pretty much any target. Well, besides the planet Earth.
The powers that be up at Kierland provide A/C on the carts, but then often restricted the cart to the path. The paths out there are virtually all elevated well above the fairway, which means you're hill climbing back to your cart all afternoon and in desperate need of that A/C. After a few cold brews, I found it much easier to fudge on the "no cart" rule. In fact, I ran over one of those little bastards, much to the amusement of Pabla, my cart partner.
By the time we hit 18, we were all pretty much done. Tired, cranky,dehydrated, and since we ran out of beer at 13, hung over. We finished somewhere between "also ran" and "ass kicked." We didn't have a prayer, since it takes a math professor with a mainframe to figure our astronomical handicaps. The tournament allowed a max of only 24, so we were spotting the good golfers several strokes right off the mark.
No big deal, though. We had a great time, raised a little money, and I still had a prize waiting for me. A "No Cart" sign jammed firmly into my golf bag by
I got that going for me.
