"Magic Carpet Golf" was a miniature golf course we'd visit for a funky, warm evening of stupid, cheap fun in Tucson Arizona. You know... putt a golf ball into the hiney of a Tyranosaurus, it drops out of its mouth, and rolls through a little windmill. THAT sort of place.

THIS lead us - friends, precisionists, and Grad school competitors that we were - to seek a professional course, which of course meant the one and only Gold Standard: "Putt Putt Golf". Zen in its simplicity. You faced short pile astro-turf and white banking boards. The Billiards of Miniature Golf. No nonsense, no gimmicks. It was Pure. We went to the Blue Note strip bar for sleaze, the Middle Eastern restaurant for banana daiquiris and superb, exotic belly dancing, the transvestite bar for a good game of "Determining That Gender!" - but Putt Putt was utter Zen.

THIS lead fellow artist, Tom, and I and our girlfriends and pals to go there on a steady basis. The more low scores, the more free or discounted games. THIS lead to getting good. THIS lead to our eventual entries into the city-wide competition. Tom and I were equally good. Somewhere I still have those famous score sheets. Upon every visit to the course, we would all pick new names for our Putt Putt personas. "Buzzy", "Jimbo", "Edna", whatever. Hey, it was one of our traditions. Shut up and make your own history.

The night of the Big Putt Putt Playoff (and our Putting was always at night in Tucson, lest we faint dead away from the intense light and heat of the day), we were there early... looking over the courses, making sure they were flawless, eyeing the competition... getting in the Zone, THE ZONE. Finding the 'Tude. THE 'Tude.

A young blonde boy of maybe 14, chauffered by his parents, arrived in all white clothing with Putt Putt logos on everything he wore or owned. "Little punk probably has Putt Putt tighty whities..." He was carrying a case. In it he had a 2-piece, screw-together, privately-owned putter. WE rented random putters from the P-P counter man each night. We were workin' class stiffs who made Art. We didn't own no stinking 2-piece personal putters.

(This is where you need to imagine the 1960's Clint Eastwood "Man with No Name" Spaghetti Western theme song of whistling & moaning designed by Ennio Morricone...)

"Who IS this STARCHED white stranger?"

Long story short - the competition fell away through the night, until, after 36 Holes of Intensity, it was down to Shiny Boy, me, and Tom. I believe we pushed into overtime for another 4-8 holes. THAT is A LOT of running even. Do you UNDERSTAND the STRESS here??? Tom lost his focus for one thousandth of one second, and missed a putt. It was down to me and Golden Boy. We went another couple holes. I blinked..... I missed.... .........and he won.

(Now imagine the whistling again, and a tumbleweed blowing through the parking lot.) It was over.

IT was over. He received his award...yeh, yeh, blah blah blah. I think it was another two-piece putter. I didn't want no stinking 2-piece putter no-hows. I was Official Second Place Putter of the City. I was handed coupons for burgers at McDonald's. I don't remember if Tom got a Third Place "award". I DO remember we all used my coupons at McDonald's on the way home. We were starving Graduate Students, after all.

(More Italian cowboy whistling and haunt-ish moaning, please.)

"Doo do do do doooo........... Wah waaah waaahhhh....."

"Make my day, BLEACH Boy..."

I throw my poncho over my shoulder, reveal my weapon, chew on my cigarillo, squint into the bright desert sun, give an unflinching stare to my competition, look down, and stroke my trusty rented putter.

"Doo do do do doooo........... Wah waaah waaahhhh....."