I played golf with Dave again yesterday. We drove out to Mission Hills, grabbed a cart, and took along a 12 pack of Coors Light. It looked like it was just going to be me and him, which is just how I like it (I don’t particularly like playing with strangers).

As we’re warming up some jackass comes walking out to the tee box and asks if he can play with us. This poor guy doesn’t know what he’s getting himself into.

The stranger in our threesome was your classic wanna-be PGA tour professional type. He was all decked out in his red Ashton polo shirt (top button buttoned, a la Tiger Woods) with a brand new Calloway monogrammed golf bag, Nike golf balls, and Titleist ball cap. I hate these guys. He lined up every putt and in general took his sweet ass time doing everything. He even took his glove off on the green to putt. He was all serious, all business. Borrrrrrrinnnng. Why play golf if you’re not going to have any fun?

Anyway, Dave and I were boozing it up, talking during each other’s swings, spitting Copenhagen on each other’s golf balls, hitting discarded tees in the grass at each other, putting and hitting when ready and not waiting for our “turn”… Blaine (no bullshit, that was his name) was not very happy with our antics. Anyone who knows me, knows that I like to push buttons. This guy was asking for it. So I fucked with him the whole round, being as obnoxious as possible. And Dave played right along with me.

By the end of our round Blaine wasn’t talking to us any longer. Mission accomplished. We walked off the last green without exchanging pleasantries. See ya later, jackass.

I think we got more enjoyment out of purposely being dorks to piss off Mr. PGA Tour than anything. Of course, it’s always fun to hang out with Dave. But yesterday was exceptional.

OK

So Dave calls me up this afternoon around 1pm. I just got finished helping my Dad stain the deck, we’ve been at it for 3 hours, and I’m beat.

“What the fuck, dude? What’s up? Are we playing golf this afternoon, or what?”

Hell yes, I’m thinking. Is that even a question? So Dave shows up around 4pm and we hit it, hard.

First, we go to the bar and buy a 6-pack of hooch. OK, we’re set. We put our clubs in the cart and set out.

It takes us FOREVER. The 4 guys in front of us are garbage, hitting 4 balls each and they’re all over the course. Needless to say, it takes us forever to finish a round.

Now, Dave and I are alike, in that we HATE to wait. Both of us are very impatient. 3 hours later and we’re steaming and ready to booze. We skip, entirely, the 8th hole and half the 9th.

Time to booze.

3 hours later we’re in the bar, yucking it up with a couple d00ds and getting sloshed. We’re drinking MAS pints of hooch and doing shots of Jack. We’re FUCKED up, to put it mildly.

Next thing you know, it’s 11pm.

Oh shit.

Dave was supposed to be home by 10pm. The way it looks now, he’s ain’t gonna be home until after midnight.

“Dave, can you drive?”

“Oh yeah, man, I’m cool. Just gimme some water and something to eat and I’ll make it.”

I’m not so sure.

In any case, I feed him, water him, and send him on his way. Then I get to thinking. My Mom’s still up, so I go to talk to her.

“Whassup Mom? So, uh, is it my fault, or what?”

I know what’s she’s thinking. Tom and Walt, all over again (my Dad and his best friend).

I know what’s going to happen. To get the heat off ’em, Dave is going to blame everything on me. So the next time I see his wife, I’m gonna get some stink-eye. But is it really my fault?

“You should be the more mature one, and get Dave home on time,” my Mom says to me.

Should I? I dunno. It’s not like I’m holding a gun to Dave’s head and forcing him to drink, right?

Is it my fault?

I make myself a burrito and head to my room. I can hear my Mom saying, “You men never learn…”

Oh yeah, and we saw Melanie Carrol tonight. She’s married, and teaches 5th grade in Lompoc. And our 15-year reunion is in June. Crazy, huh?

Last Thursday through Sunday was rough. Four days of booze and goodbyes and I’m still hurting.

Monday I packed all my belongings and moved back to Haytown. I must say that the weather here is exponentially better. Today the temperature is a whopping 72 degrees. In Chico it’s over 100.

So I’m in culture shock and all. I miss the small-town feel of Chico and my friends. I think my final days deserve a good write up, just not right now. I’ve still to set up my office (I’m writing this entry on my old wireless laptop).