I spent most of the past three days with some old friends yukking it up, eating and drinking, and pretending to golf.
Clark Pace, my neighbor in So Calif for twenty years, semi-organized this adventure. Clark, bless his heart, tries to plan events but just can’t seem to close the loop: there’s always some unanticipated hiccup that knocks things off kilter.
Like the time we were stepping up to the Southwest Airlines terminal in San Diego, about to fly off to Mazatlan, Mexico for a week’s vacation, when Clark turned to his wife Karin and said, “You have the passports, right?” Nope. Charlie and I flew, they didn’t (until the next day).
Or the time our four-man golf group was returning from BajaMar Resort near Ensenada, Mexico and a Federale motorcycle cop pulled us out of line just before the U.S. border in Tijuana to shake us down. He closely inspected everything on my car, looking for something/anything to cite us for. Nada, we were clean: it was a brand new Mercury Mountaineer. The Frito Bandido then walks up to the front passenger window, looks Clark over real good, and says, “Senor, you aren’t wearing a seat belt. That is a serious crime in our country. I will have to impound this car and take you four gringos to jail.” Or, of course, you could hand the stinking bastard $100, which is what Clark had to do. Serves him right for being a scofflaw.
Or the time that a bunch of couples rented a limo to take us to the Mission Inn for a fancy Christmas feast in their gourmet dining room. It was a 45-minute drive. During that time, Clark imbibed half a bottle of Scotch. Then we trooped into the dining room, were sat down at the premier front table, and we ordered our $60 per person ribeye, filet, and prime rib dinners. Clark turned green and headed for the restroom to vomit. He was gone for 25 minutes, and during that time his dinner was brought to the table. We all began to eat; it was delicious. Clark eventually showed up, sick as a dog, and then complained to the staff that his prime rib was cold. They offered to bring him a warm dinner but he refused: he demanded his money back. What a jerk; he was too sick to eat anyway!
Or the time at his Palm Springs golf tournament (with about 60 golfers and lots of prize money) that he personally vouched for some guy that he didn’t know, giving the stranger a “temporary” 15 shot handicap. That supposedly mediocre golfer shot a scratch 69 the first day and a 70 on the second day, winning the tournament by about 25 strokes and gobbling up most of the hundreds of dollars in prize money. That was the last time that I, and my of my friends, played in the Pace Memorial Tournament.
Anyway, my friend Clark is a piece of work. I love the guy, but…sheesh!
So, we (Clark, “Fred”, Clark’s brother “J.P.”, and me) were scheduled by Pace Productions to go to the local Casablanca Casino (here in Mesquite, Nevada) on Sunday afternoon for a big “Super Bowl Extravaganza”. Oh, boy, we could hardly wait! We arrived to find a fairly small, dimly lit room featuring maybe ten small tables facing the “big screen”…all of the tables “reserved” and full to capacity. There was no standing room, either, because of Covid-19 restrictions. And the game was being shown on a 20’ wide projection screen that must have been twenty-five years old. The image was so dark that one could hardly make out the teams, the players, and their jersey numbers. What a disaster! We were screwed: Clark hadn’t done his homework, as usual.
Except that we were in my town, and there in my living room, three miles away, is a magnificent 75″ high def TV, comfortable seating for four, a refrig with beer, and lots of appetizers that we could air fry for the game. And the best news was that my wife Charlie and the dogs were at a neighbors’ home for the Super Bowl shwo.
So, the four of us quickly opted for Plan B and hightailed it over to Buggy Whip Court. We only missed a couple of minutes of the game, which turned out to be a real good one, as the Tampa Bay Bucs asswhipped the Kansas City Chiefs 31-9. (Of course, Tampa Bay has a pretty good quarterback who only touched the grass once in the game when he fell on a bad hike from center. I was rooting for Tom Brady because he still has a few fingers on his mitts that don’t sport Super Bowl Champion rings.)
Clark, J.P., and Fred stayed the night at the Casablanca Casino/Hotel, and the next morning the four of us motored 45 miles north to St. George, Utah where we were going to play golf and stay the night.
We actually checked into our room early (at the Red Roof Inn), before golfing. When we did, Clark surprised all of us and the hotel clerk by announcing that we were only staying one night, instead of the two that he had booked. WTF! (Clark had decided, without telling anyone, that he intended to drive home to So Calif after golf the next day, so there would be no need for an extra night’s stay. That surprised all of us, particularly his brother J.P., who would have to haul his ass about 300 miles north to Salt Lake on Tuesday after golfing into the afternoon.)
Same old shit, different day.
We had a real nice time in St. George at the Sky Mountain Golf Course. I played like dog doo (might have lost eight golf balls) but had a great time with my buddies. My cart mate was Fred Weisinger, who retired long ago from the L.A. County Sheriff’s Dept. Fred spent a lot of the day bitching that he thought he’d left his loaded pistol (!) in his Casablanca hotel room. WTF! (Of course, Fred is 83, and we suspected that his gun was probably at his home in So Calif.)
Nobody played all that good at Sky Mountain, but it was a beautiful course and we all had a couple of shots that we were proud of.
That evening J.P. (who used to live in St. George) took Clark and I (Fred stayed in the hotel to catch some sleep) to the Texas Roadhouse, his favorite joint, for dinner. It must be in the Pace family genes not to plan ahead for anything, because we arrived there with no reservations…and had to stand in a crowded waiting room for 45 minutes before we got a table. We then ordered our food (I chose the St. George Ribeye). And we waited, and waited, and waited. Finally, after about 30 minutes, our food arrived.
Oh, boy, my 16-oz ribeye was perhaps the best I’ve ever had: I inhaled that tasty specimen. Yummy!
Clark got his BBQ ribs…and immediately complained that they were overdone. J.P. got his filet mignon…and immediately complained that it was “rubbery”. WTF, those Paces are picky sonsofbitches! It took them ten minutes to flag down our waiter, and then another ten minutes or so to get replacement food. Jesus, I was done with my steak and baked potato before they dug into their “properly cooked” meat. All in all, we spent a couple of hours at that joint, mostly waiting on things.
Clark made amends by picking up the check. What a guy!
Today (Tuesday) we drove the 45-minutes south on I-15 back to Mesquite to play the Casablanca Golf Course. I had never played it before, so I was looking forward to it.
Before arriving at the course, we detoured over to the Casino/Hotel where Fred insisted he’d left his loaded gun in his room on Sunday night. He talked to the counter staff, to management, to Security, etc., telling them that his pistol had to be in his room (which had probably been cleaned and occupied by other guests!). Anyway, that gun wasn’t in Lost and Found, for sure, and hotel staff sent Fred packing.
We got to Casablanca Golf Course at 10:30 and checked in at the Pro Shop. Once again, the Pace family had screwed up the reservation…we were charged $110 apiece, not the $80 that those Pace jokers had promised Fred and I. Man, that is some high priced golf for these parts…normally I pay $65 at my Sun City Mesquite course (“Conestoga”), which is a very sweet layout.
Anyway, we reluctantly paid and headed off to the first tee. Fred reached into his golf bag for some balls and tees and…found his friggin’ loaded pistol. Jeezus, he could have shot himself…or me! What a doofus! (And why is he carrying a pistol anyway? There’s no crime around here. Maybe he intends to cap anyone’s ass who makes fun of his topped tee shots out on the course?)
It turned out that Casablanca Golf Course is a very nice golf course, much nicer than I had suspected. Good to know, because it is only about five miles from my house. (Then, again, I’m not paying $110 to golf unless it is at St. Andrews or Augusta National.)
Again, I played like a rank amateur but only lost a couple of balls. The greens were tricky. I hit my second shot on a par five over the green by ten yards and ended up with a six. That was typical: no touch, lousy form, couldn’t do anything right all day.
But we had fun.
And no one got shot.