MINI GOLF MAYHEM

"No great story ever started with someone eating a salad" 

-Some kite flying old dude

I like to play music. Not just listen, but play. For a loner, it's a satisfying pacifier for boredom. Much like drugs and alcohol. Those are always part of the equation. Unlike cross-stitching, or crafts, there's energy and emotion in the practice. An emotional ecstasy I've yet to find a drug to match. Maybe I'm just drunk a lot.

It was party-down day with the buds. We all took a day off work to avoid the weekend warriors that regularly descend into our town. Annoying Silicon Valley assholes in their Tesla's, Cholos from Salinas in low-riders, and random nuisance people from all over the world. Thanks, Lost Boys. 

The plan was simple: Get drunk at Olitas and walk over to the boardwalk for mini golf. 

Olitas. A restaurant / bar out on the Wharf. It's mixed in with many others, but this place was special. Jeff the bartender was like family - in a Cousin Eddie way - and his margarita pours were absurd. He'd fill us pitchers of Tequila over ice, with just a splash of lime. Roughly a 64oz vessel of bottom shelf, iced, Mexican piss and fire. We were very generous tippers and Jeff went the extra mile to ensure our regular visitation. 

The bar looks out over Monterey Bay. It sits at he end of a long line of local businesses on the second level and has just endless water and sky in view. You can see across the bay on a clear day to Monterey. Locals fuck with tourists and tell them it's Hawaii. Many buy it. Flat-Earther dumb fucks. 

It's amazing the dopes you meet at the bars in Santa Cruz. Too many. Confident stories of Bigfoot, Chem-trails and UFO's. It's entertaining for a minute, then you begin to wonder: What the actual fuck is wrong with these people? What rock did they climb out from under to only find Info Wars as their reliable source for news?

There's a large population of Sea Lions that are constantly barking and bickering over pier space. It's quite charming. The scent of decaying fish is luring after a time. Something you need to accept if you enjoy drinking ocean side. I could do without the piss bum scent all over the sidewalks.

The buds are packed full of hyperbolic tales they've been suppressing for a week. Social media outbursts are nothing compared to live, in person narratives. Tales of epic bike rides, one night stands, telling a co-worker to fuck off. I always interpret such tales as so: You rode your bike across town to a dispensary, crossing a baseball field along the way. You fucked a fat chick out of last call desperation. You rolled your eyes at a person. I never have a story. I'm a loser that stays home or day drinks at the bar. I'm too whiskey-dicked by evening to have such affairs.

We are shmammerd! Shit faced, hammered drunk and laughing our asses off. May as well pour some more fun down before we head over to the arcade. First, a pit stop.

Near the entrance for the Wharf is a small liquor store with egregious pricing. Beach tax they call it locally. We load up on mini bottles of more shitty Tequila and add shitty whiskey to the mix. We're men in our 40's and 50's sneaking shots and acting like giddy sorority girls crossing the quad during rush. Stumble-bumming steps, loud laughs and flailing arms like one of those tube man things outside a grand opening for a new, questionable buffet.

On weekdays, outside of the seasonal apocalypse, the Boardwalk is relatively quiet. Far fewer nuisances, though the homeless junkies are ever-present. 

Santa Cruz is a small town with big city resources, and year-round perfect climate. It's a magnet for the homeless. There's no reason to come here jobless except to milk the services. There are no fucking jobs. People that are employed hang onto their positions for dear life because you are capital letter fucked if you find yourself a job seeker, even with spectacular credentials. But the meth and fentanyl is a plenty. Drug dealing is a side hustle for the migrant farmers, and a straight up career for some. I know these people. I do drugs. Shipments come in from LA, Sacramento and Phoenix at such a predictable frequency there has to be some serious corruption going on with local law enforcement. Or they're just lazy. The overdose deaths occur so often local news has stopped reporting on them. Tourist Friendly News, it's called. You only hear the stories when a neighbor, friend or otherwise found a dead body in their backyard or along the river walk and brought it up at the bar. I found a guy...

I slept off a drunken night at a bar in my car. I woke up early and decided to stick around until they opened in the morning - I'm a drunk - and went for a walk. Behind the bar was a homeless guy face down in the shrubs. You see it everywhere. I figured he was junked-up and lights out, passed out. My walk took me to the bay and back. About an hour. When I came back through the guy hadn't moved at all. I called 911. I was spinning in hangover land and didn't want to talk to anyone in person, so I crossed the bridge over the river and sat on a bench watching 4 police cars, an ambulance / EMT and for whatever fucking reason a firetruck arrive at the scene. I guess when it comes to city funding, use it or lose it. The dude is lifeless, dangling arms and all as they load him on the stretcher. They all depart and looking at my phone for the time I see -  hallelujah. Bars open. The bartender later relayed the grapevine obituary. 

Once inside the arcade we get our rental clubs and huddled. We each acknowledged we are too fucked up for public consumption and tell each other to keep our shit together. Agreed. 

First in line, 'James'. I am a teetotaler in comparison to this trust fund imbecile. There are stories to be told at another time. First dude to play, first ball hit of the game, this motherfucker strikes the ball as if aiming for a putting green 100 yards away. The ball bounces off the second story wall and disappears somewhere amongst the air hockey tables. What a dick. But for a bunch of drunk old dudes the funniest god damn dick move ever! I laughed so hard I almost passed out. That's the last thing I remember. I had blacked-out in classic drank way too much fashion.

The story goes, and this was relayed by people that were just as hammered:

I was stumbling. Frustrated I couldn't hit the ball I was carrying it and dropping it into the holes and exclaiming 'Hole in one!' It was harmless stupidity that thankfully didn't get us 86'ed. We were after all, fun drunks and not horribly obnoxious. One of my stumbles had me land fingers-first to the ground. I had broken two fingers and according to witnesses, it looked gnarly. 

I lived only a few blocks away, but I couldn't walk there. Apparently I refused an Uber because I had a 5-star rider rating I didn't want to risk. My friend, my best friend, my dearest friend, got under my left arm and walked me home like I was a wounded soldier. I remember none of it. 

I wake up in the morning and my fingers have a homemade splint: Two Allen keys and duct tape. The tools had slipped to the side while I was passed out and did nothing to keep the fingers straight. My entire hand felt like it had been curb stomped and I had to go to work. I'm deformed! I'm in IT. My fingers do my brains physical labor.

Everyone's asking if I crashed mountain biking, 'Yo, bro. You do Fenceline yesterday, or what?' Fenceline is a particularly infamous trail in Santa Cruz. 'You catch some serious air before that crash?' "You wipe out in the gulley?' 'How'd you break your fingers man?' I could only answer honestly.

Mini Golf.

I was a living joke for the day. It didn't take much imagination for anyone to realize I got drunk and fell. I was a walking cocktail of residual drunkenness, shame and embarrassment. But hey, everyone had laugh, so fuck it.

Now I can't play music. I can't even masturbate properly anymore. But I can lift a glass. So I drink. And fuck it.

Cheers.