By On the occasion of our 20th anniversary
By Gustavo Arellano
By R. Scott Moxley
By Alfonso Delgado
By Courtney Hamilton
By Joel Beers
By Peter Maguire
By Charles Lam
We weren't expecting much when we drove all the way up to Whittier, for God's sake, to witness the spectacle of a bunch of OC rock stars golfing. We don't believe in golf. We mean, we believe it exists, but only for the horrible kind of crusty, mean people who actually golf. Have you ever seen those snapshots of Supervisor Todd Spitzerin golf togs—including a saucy little tam-o'-shanter? Kennedyesque or not, it was about as appealing as month-old milk. Shame on you, Todd!
So with a mighty chip on our slender, creamy (really, quite lovely) shoulder, we entered the Whittier Narrows Golf Course. Oh, yes. We were prepared to hate. And have some drinks.
Once inside, we quickly spied promoter Scott Tucker because his hair is now an obscene shade of lipstick red. It looked good. But we didn't spot many rock stars. They weren't being rock stars; they were being golfers. It was all terribly low-key. Three guys from (hed)pewere representin', as was one of the sons of Neville Staples. A guy each from NoFX, The Vandals and No Doubtshowed, as did masters of Metallicakaraoke, Zebrahead. But apparently, lame Tucker (who reports that after a tequila shot, he almost yakked on his very nice father) hadn't secured the permits for the post-tournament concert, so peeps like Fishbone bowed out. Others merely overslept, like Burnin' Groove's dreamy drummer, Steve Lynch, leaving his singer, Darren Carlson, scrambling to fill out his foursome, even though the tournament was a benefit for Angels Careand the band had already ponied up $50 per player.
"What's Angels Care?" we asked Tucker.
"It benefits children," Tucker said. "It's for children. It benefits children."
So, for the children, we grabbed a golf cart and a couple of Heinekens and trailed after the P-Town Pubsters because they were teeing off right then—plus, a couple of them were kinda cute. (Note to P-Town Pubsters' girlfriends: they immediately brought up how beautiful you all are, just to be on the safe side in case we weren't there for research purposes only, like we would go out with rock stars anyway—we've learned our lesson, thank you. But you got you some good boyfriends, you know, if you like that kind of thing. Except we haven't heard them play, so maybe you don't.)
Cutest of the bunch and the best golfer was Rick Schroeder(his real name!), whose girlfriend is stunning (he showed us her picture) and who isn't a member of the Pubsters but was apparently brought in as a ringer. His game went seriously downhill toward the end of the day, and the Pubsters were struggling to hit par. In some unfortunate golf parlance, they were hitting "Sallys"—i.e., playing like girls. Sally, Sally, Sally.
Fortunately, the game was "best ball" to speed things up. (Everybody plays from the same spot as the best shot, even on the putting green.) But we thought it would have been much more interesting if the game was "worst ball." That way, whoever really blew would end up with his head on a pike by the end of the day, done in by his frustrated buddies. It could have been just like Lord of the Flies! How exciting!
It was around the ninth hole—after a ninth-hole rest stop—where we saw the day's only groupie wannabes (that idiot Scott Tucker really should have ensured there were more starstruck teens around) and where we really got the hang of the golf course. It wasn't until later that the Pubsters hinted to us that it's bad form to leave skid marks in the grass.
And that's when it struck us why all those horrible old, rich CEOs and gubmint types are letting society go to hell on their watch: because they're busy having a great fucking time on the links. It was a perfect 76 degrees all day, the grass was soft, there was plenty of beer (and some concoction of Red Bulland Jagermeister) floating around, and everybody had electric carts! It's just about the finest way one can spend a day, except for the actual golfing part.
Late in the day, we gave a lift to Adam, the drummer from the Fresno-based ska band Let's Go Bowling. The golf Nazis realized Let's Go Bowling had extra people milling about, so we decided to go offroading (careful not to flip the cart, as Dave, one of the golf-course employees and a former member of heavy-metal band Abacus, told us he had once done—among many other amusing golf-cart mishaps). It was just like Dukes of Hazzard, except not really as impressive. We did, however, witness Let's Go Bowling—very nice guys all—sparking up; Adam said we could go ahead and write that. After all, it's what their name refers to. They still managed to play a decent game—apparently, that's all there is to do in Fresno, that and pick produce—but they lost their edge with the merry glow, eventually losing ground from 6 under par, where they had been, to come in third after some guyand the shell of Burnin' Groove.
But by that time, most people had reverted to their rock-star selves and were busy playing bumper carts, so it probably wasn't too hard. Did we mention that moron Scott Tucker almost threw up on his very own father?Commie Girl's father, Jerry, would like all you nice ladies who e-mailed him on Father's Day to know that Sunday is his 61st birthday. You can e-mail him at Schoenkopf@excite.com. Sunday is also the birthday of our best friend, Greg the Fireman: Gregthefireman@excite.com. Or find the girl at CommieGirl99@hotmail.com.