Monday, May 08, 2006
Tales From Margaritaville
Margaritaville is a state of mind. It's where you make it. Maybe it's a bar, maybe it's Key West, maybe it's in your backyard. It's an escape, with good phriends, good food, good music, short stories, and long laughs. For about 500 Parrotheads this past weekend, it was at the Avi Resort on the Colorado River. The Avi is the most southern latitude you can reach. In Nevada, that is. And it was just the change of latitude this Crime Dog needed.
Geez, where do I start on a weekend so full of stories I could write a book? So much fodder, so little web space......maybe I should just start at the beginning. Lessee, that's the part where Wayners got into a lively game of demolition derby with an 18-wheeler on the I10. The truck had a little bit of size and weight advantage over his Infiniti, and was piloted by a psycho-crazed redneck who used his airhorn like it was an extension of his happy place. He won. Better to live to fight another day, eh Wayners? Poor Wayners took heat all weekend about his choice of gas stations, as well. He ran low after leaving Arizona, but before entering Nevada. Yep, that's right, California. Land of fruits, nuts, and $4.00 per gallon gasoline in Needles. Later, I had some pump challenges at another (and much less expensive) station when the thing refused to read my card as I tried to gas up my own vehicle. I had to give up and change pumps, and afterwards had this conversation with Wayners:
Me: You're not going to believe this! That stupid pump actually DID read my card, and four other people gassed up on it before we stopped it.
Wayners: You gotta be kidding me!
Me: Nope, and it still cost me less than you spent in Needles.
Cha-CHING!
Anyway, we arrived safe and sound at the Avi and headed out to the pool for an evening of laughter and the music of Bob Karwin. He was his usual energetic and endlessly entertaining self, providing a great start to the weekend festivities. There was the usual assortment of sprinters on hand, reaching the finish line wa-a-ay too soon.
Some of those sprinters just might have been my golf buddies for Friday morning's Bloody Mary Open. I have to say, for example, that the Jello Shot Prince is perhaps the single most effective sprinter I know. No one answers the bell quite like him. But he was perhaps surpassed this time by our new and good phriend now known as "Point One-One." And why, you ask, is he now known as "Point One-One"? Because that was his blood alcohol content (.11) at 6:30AM the next morning when he showed up looking rested and chipper for golf. He was a living confirmation of the old adage: "Avoid hangovers, stay drunk."
A legend has been born. Point One-One is in the house.
Friday also marked perhaps the single funniest moment in my golf experience. The Jello Shot Prince was attempting a shot out of the rough. He chunked it badly, causing the ball to go forward perhaps three feet. Sadly, the associated divot, closely resembling a chunk of flying shag carpet, traveled about 15 feet. That act of futility elicited the following comment from Beth:
Your beaver pelt flew further than your ball.
Whether single, double, or triple entendre, that was so hysterical it stopped the golf game in its tracks for several minutes until order could be restored. I was reminded of that great Last Stan Manning moment from Phins 2005, when he put JSP's divot on his head like a chia toupee.
I've played better rounds of golf in my life, but I've never played one that was any more fun.
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Geez, where do I start on a weekend so full of stories I could write a book? So much fodder, so little web space......maybe I should just start at the beginning. Lessee, that's the part where Wayners got into a lively game of demolition derby with an 18-wheeler on the I10. The truck had a little bit of size and weight advantage over his Infiniti, and was piloted by a psycho-crazed redneck who used his airhorn like it was an extension of his happy place. He won. Better to live to fight another day, eh Wayners? Poor Wayners took heat all weekend about his choice of gas stations, as well. He ran low after leaving Arizona, but before entering Nevada. Yep, that's right, California. Land of fruits, nuts, and $4.00 per gallon gasoline in Needles. Later, I had some pump challenges at another (and much less expensive) station when the thing refused to read my card as I tried to gas up my own vehicle. I had to give up and change pumps, and afterwards had this conversation with Wayners:
Me: You're not going to believe this! That stupid pump actually DID read my card, and four other people gassed up on it before we stopped it.
Wayners: You gotta be kidding me!
Me: Nope, and it still cost me less than you spent in Needles.
Cha-CHING!
Anyway, we arrived safe and sound at the Avi and headed out to the pool for an evening of laughter and the music of Bob Karwin. He was his usual energetic and endlessly entertaining self, providing a great start to the weekend festivities. There was the usual assortment of sprinters on hand, reaching the finish line wa-a-ay too soon.
Some of those sprinters just might have been my golf buddies for Friday morning's Bloody Mary Open. I have to say, for example, that the Jello Shot Prince is perhaps the single most effective sprinter I know. No one answers the bell quite like him. But he was perhaps surpassed this time by our new and good phriend now known as "Point One-One." And why, you ask, is he now known as "Point One-One"? Because that was his blood alcohol content (.11) at 6:30AM the next morning when he showed up looking rested and chipper for golf. He was a living confirmation of the old adage: "Avoid hangovers, stay drunk."
A legend has been born. Point One-One is in the house.
Friday also marked perhaps the single funniest moment in my golf experience. The Jello Shot Prince was attempting a shot out of the rough. He chunked it badly, causing the ball to go forward perhaps three feet. Sadly, the associated divot, closely resembling a chunk of flying shag carpet, traveled about 15 feet. That act of futility elicited the following comment from Beth:
Your beaver pelt flew further than your ball.
Whether single, double, or triple entendre, that was so hysterical it stopped the golf game in its tracks for several minutes until order could be restored. I was reminded of that great Last Stan Manning moment from Phins 2005, when he put JSP's divot on his head like a chia toupee.
I've played better rounds of golf in my life, but I've never played one that was any more fun.
