You know what’s crazy? I’ll tell you what’s crazy™
Jack and Coke on an empty stomach.
It’s like flying a kite in a hurricane. It’s like skate boarding over land mines. It’s like throwing darts with a blind man.
My best buddy in California picks me up at 1 pm at the San Diego Airport.
He whisks me off to his golf club.
He’s playing in a 4 hole golf tournament. I will be his driver.
It’s 90 degrees. The sun is scorching a brilliant blue sky. There’s a touch of humidity in the air.
San Diegans are bitching about the heat. Coming from Nashville, I think it’s cool.
I look out at the driving range. The palm trees are swaying like a hula dancer inviting me to a luau.
We stop at the bar. My buddy orders 2 Jack and Cokes and 4 beers.
“We might get thirsty,” he says.
It’s a hot day and I’m parched. The cold beverage hits the spot. I sense the Jack Daniels, but mostly taste the cold Coca-Cola and ice.
I probably drink it faster than recommended on the label.
The problem is breakfast lunch and dinner have consisted of a bag of Southwest Airlines peanuts.
What’s that? Like 18 peanuts? Like 100 calories? 6 for breakfast. Yummy. Like scrambled eggs and bacon. 6 for lunch. Almost a turkey club, right? 6 for dinner. What’s that? A Filet and potatoes? Yummy.
So the problem is, my stomach is empty like Congresses plan for balancing the budget.
My stomach is stupid. It only knows what it knows. So when the emptiness of my stomach is introduced to the cold and refreshing splash of Jack and Coke, well my stomach does what any good stomach would do; it treats it like a food product.
My my brain inhales it like oxygen.
Alcohol as oxygen. It’s an interesting mix and I start feeling a strong buzz as we set off on the first hole.
It’s hot and we are hydrating with fire water.
“Pop those beers,” my buddy says having just landed a ball a few feet from the pin.
Pop. Pop. done.
The tournament ends when my buddy leaves his putt short.
That’s the bad news. The good news, we have 4 beers and a golf course to ourselves.
We go to the next hold and drop a couple of balls.
“Man, I’m feeling that Jack and Coke, dude. I haven’t eaten in like a day.”
“We’ll eat later,” he says pulling out a couple of clubs. “Let’s hit some balls.”
He tees up the ball. “Go for it,” he says.
I approach the tee, but getting an accurate read is difficult to say the least.
The Jack and Coke has altered my perception. My stance is loose and my grip lousy. The sun is blaring and is refracting off the inside of my sunglasses somehow.
My own sunglasses seem to be disorienting me.
I see the ball. It’s not moving, but it kind of looks like it is.
I stand over the ball and swing.
Wiff….
OMG that is embarrassing.
“Try it again”, my buddy says.
I stand over the ball. I squint, trying to stabilize the little orb.
I begin my back swing. So far so good. I get to the top of the arc and it all begins to come undone like a prom dress around 1:30 am.
I hit the ball, but it feels wrong – like a guy wearing dolphin shorts.
I top the ball. It goes straight, but never gets a foot off the grass.
“Kill a few gophers,” my buddy jokes.
“Wow I’m buzzing dude.”
I need about ten strokes to finish this par 4. Not even sure what +6 is called. It probably has a scientific name only known by MIT grads who golf.
I laugh as I finish my 2nd beer. I’m a mess. My game is a soiled Kleenex.
“Dude, I gotta eat.”
“You know why they call it GOLF?” My friend queries out of nowhere.
“why?”
“Because F*** was all ready taken.”
I laugh out loud. That’s great. Golf can be crazy frustrating, especially when your body is processing Jack and Coke as a food product.
We play a few more holes of bad gold and head to the restaurant.
Finally some food, I think to myself.
There is an assortment of bar b q.
It’s like an oasis in the desert.
I load up a plate of ribs and my salivary glands begin to churn like the fountains at Bellagio.
But before I can taste this delectable life raft of food, my buddy hands me a shot.
“Fireball,” he yells.
OMG
“Are you trying to kill me?”
“Nope. Just getting you ready for horseshoes,” He says.
“Horseshoes?”
“Yep. I’m the club champion.”
We do the shot. It’s like cinnamon and fire creeping down my throat.
I grimace as he continues.
“I have some money on the next game with a guy who is talking crap.”
“And you picked me as your partner?”
“Of course”
“You realize I’m completely under the influence of Jack and Coke right now? And whatever they call this,” putting my shot glass down on the table.
“Yup. Just throw it down the line.”
I gobble as much of the ribs as I can standing in line waiting to throw a horse shoe.
The pits are about 20 yards apart. There are 2 dozen people hollering for various teams.
Suddenly we are up.
I get on one end and my buddy on the other.
I stare at the red pole. It’s a long ways away. In fact I can only detect it because my friend is pointing at it.
I concentrate and toss the first horseshoe. The heavy hunk of metal flies. It feels all wrong as it leaves my hand. I watch as it sails high and to the right.
I’m suppose to hit the pole, but I suddenly hope that I don’t kill anyone.
The horseshoe hits the ground near the pit and kicks hard to the left. Some spectators have to scramble to avoid having their shins shattered.
“Easy partner. Easy. Take your time,” my buddy bellows from a horse shoe pit far far away.
OMG, What am I doing. I’m going to take out somebody’s eye.
I concentrate on the stake. I bend over and think about the toss. I find a rhythm, swinging the shoe backward and in an easy motion, I follow through. The horseshoe leaves my finger tips and has a nice upward trajectory. For all the Jack and Coke coursing through my veins, my brain tells me this shoe has a chance.
It lands in the front of the pit and skips forward. It smacks into the metallic post and stops.
The shoe is leaning on the post. It is not a ringer, but it is a winner, if the next throw doesn’t dislodge it.
“Nice shot,” my buddy hollers.
“Nice shot,” my competitor says as he takes his spot in the sand.
He is an older man and his face leather hard from a lifetime of golfing and probably playing horseshoes.
He has a nice easy toss and the shoe leaves his hands with a whoosh.
The shoe arcs nicely. It is headed right at the stake.
Clank.
It strikes my shoe and sends it flying. It’s a loser.
His shoe lands in the sand, closest to the pin.
They win.
“That’s OK,” my buddy hollers.
He hits me on the back and leads me to the drink station.
“He made a great toss,” he says as he orders up two more shots.
I look up. We are suddenly at the drink station again.
“Two Jack Daniels shooters he says to the bar tender.”
“Yes sir,” the bartender says.
OMG
“Isn’t this great?” he says clanking my shot glass.
“Cheers.”
Get ready brain, more liquid oxygen.
Life’s Crazy™