Thursday, May 10, 2007
Fox and I braved the shitty forecast to play 18 at one of Dallas' finest (read "cheapest") golf courses, L.B. Houston. After multiple days of inch-plus rain, this course was rife with standing water, gunk, mosquitos and the kind of humidity reserved for Houston - So I suppose it lived up to its name.
I am not a good golfer. I love it, but it rarely loves me back. Today was a loveless day. 8" of rain and clay made for the kind of golf that might turn a better man back, but Fox and I trudged through the puddles and muck with fortitude. It was like 'Nam (down to the sound of artillery being fired at the gun range down the road.)
The L.B. houston snackbar is down for repairs. And this has left the opportunistic squirrels at the tenth green more ornery than usual. I warned Jason that the squirrels at L.B. Houston's tenth green were some of the most tenacious little vermin this side of Oak Cliff (my former house literally crawled with tight-rope walking roof rats. I had more rat poison in my attic and rat skeletons in my walls than you can believe.)
No sooner had I pulled the cart to the edge of the green, than a squirrel stood, hands on hips, in the middle of the cart path. I hissed at him and brandished my putter. He was nonplussed. After a minute of more and more threatening jabs with the putter, the squirrel retreated to peer at me from behind a nearby tree. Feeling good about my display of hostility, I hiked to the green in time to see Fox top one, cursing, out of the standing water and within about 10 feet of the first cut. I turned to see the squirrel helping himself to my bag of chex mix in the cup holder. I ran, screaming and waving my putter, back down the slope, spooking him off the cart and up a tree. In his haste, he dropped my chex mix. I grabbed it (a gaping tooth-hole leaked cereal and sodium) and backed away. He stared me down with cold, beady eyes. The squirrel, not Fox.
We laughed nervously as we backed up the slope to continue putting. No sooner had we turned our backs to the cart than the little bastard was digging through our golf bags and water bottles. We finished putting and shooed him off the cart. I pulled my driver out and waved at him as he peered at us, head high, from a tree. His eyes locked on the head of my driver, sizing up its edibility.
We jumped in the cart and headed to the eleventh tee. Fucking squirrel FOLLOWS US! And continues to rifle through our belongings while we tee off. Poorly, I might add. Due in no small part to the creepy squirrel regarding us from the seat of our own golf cart. Outrageous.
It is one thing to have your cart raided by hungry squirrels on the tenth green. But to have said squirrels taunt you from your cart on the eleventh tee is just plain bullshit.
Wednesday, May 09, 2007
Tuesday, May 08, 2007
The Orange Show's annual Art Car Parade is this weekend.
P-funkadelic frontman George Clinton to be showing up even the weirdest of weird. This kind of shit can fly a lot of places in Texas. But Dallas is not one of them. The dog parade (and maybe the st. Patrick's Day parade) is about as weird as it gets in Dallas.