Last Saturday, AlliTron called me at 11AM, with an offer to fulfill a longtime desire of mine (don’t get too excited just yet – this fantasy has a mere PG-13 rating).  The sun was out, the asphalt was ripe . . . it was time to play urban golf!  It seems that every urban golf league has its own unique rules and equipment, just as “house rules” may exist for Monopoly (growing up, if my baby brother landed on a property and didn’t have enough fake money to foot the bill, he had to give me his allowance).  So I’ll just relate the NW Urban Sports way.  Any old club will do – preferred vendor is Goodwill (suggested retail price = $2).  The only other equipment you need is balls – tennis balls.  They are easier to hit, and reduce the probability of property damage.  Our clubmaster, Scotty, of PC Load Letter fame does all the rest. He asks nothing in return for his trouble, but propriety suggests that buying the man drinks throughout the day is good form. He designed the course, printed out maps for participants, and taped flags to each “hole” to guide our strokes.  Exemplary aim is not required; rather than landing a ball in a hole, one merely needs to hit the object to which the flag is taped (trashcan, bridge pylon, Silver Man street performer, etc).  We teed off in NoPo, and worked a round-a-bout course of 12 holes, stopping every hour or two at a pre-designated bar.  

I skipped the first watering hole,  The White Eagle, to get a haircut from  The Greatest Hairdresser in the World.  After about an hour’s hiatus, I caught back up to the gang under the I-5 bridge, just in time for the most dangerous stretch of all . . . the dreaded 5th hole took us to the Albina/Mississippi max stop.  In seven years of living in Portland, and countless mad rushes to catch swiftly-escaping public transportation, I have NEVER even considered crossing the max tracks illegally.  But it’s amazing how quickly I became a scofflaw when par was on the line instead of the risk of being late to work at my stupid warehouse job.  Fortunately, the next stop gave us a little respite from that vortex of bikes, trains, and automobiles . . . we hopped off at Kaiser Permanente, where we had a nice long, smooth, quiet stretch to put.  This serene landscape did nothing to prevent an atrociously high 29 strokes for me, not to mention, multiple “in the rough” shots for various members of our party.

Kaiser Permanente turned out to be very decent about our trespassery.  When security saw us approaching with clubs, he called in back-up.  Scotty explained that we were just passing through, and using kinder, gentler tennis balls, and dude immediately called off the cavalry and hung around to watch us play through.  We were rewarded for our good behavior at Alibi, where we indulged in refreshing screwdrivers and an array of deep fried appetizers.  Being at a Tiki bar, I felt a bit remiss for not indulging in a ridiculous little girly drink with umbrellas and pastel colors, to go with our equally ridiculous plaid and argyle clothing.   But I just couldn’t resist the sweet, alluring tang of highballs for only $2.50.

Our next challenge was to breach the I-5 overpass which we managed to do without cracking any windshields below.  Then, we followed our balls to Moloko Plus, where we were delighted to discover that Miller High Life was only 8 bits.  Better still, our beers were served up by a cutie named Jonas, with whom I’d previously had a surreptitious meeting involving R. Kelly . . . drat, I’ve said too much already . . .

One last hole brought us full circle, back to the Purple Tooth, where we toasted our superhigh (meaning really bad) scores, and awarded the trophy to Sir Jafo, Lord of Wigglebottom. 

I grew up in a house on a golf course, Beverly HillBillies-style, yet I have never played the game myself.  Mind you, I frequently used the course as a playground . . . sledding on the hills in the winter, stealing the next door neighbor’s golf cart to joy ride in the summer, and always running around on course with my big-ass St. Bernard dogs, who thoroughly enjoyed stealing the balls from golfers and fucking their games up (good girl, Nana!).  Anyway, it was fun to finally play the game which I had always been so physically close to, yet so ideologically far away from.  For the next game, I’d like to hire a caddy – the ideal candidate will be an obsequious and destitute ex-CEO.  I hope that someday, Donald Trump will qualify - my door will always be open for The Donald.