tom Dixon, one of America’s top-ranked professional miniature golfers, is tracing the proud lineage of his sport. “All your top pros — like Arnold Palmer — they started out in mini golf. And look where he is now.” He pauses a moment, contemplating the image of the four-time Masters Tournament champion in the mini maze. “Or maybe it was Jack Nicklaus.”
Miniature golf has always been the scorned stepchild of what athletic snobs refer to as “real” golf. While few question the legitimacy of a pastime that puts rich white dudes in go-carts and festively outri pants, many of us still associate its baby sibling with little more than tipsy summer nights spent whacking balls into clowns’ mouths. But what miniature golf lacks in rolling hills, sweeping vistas and millionaire champions it makes up for in cute-as-an-Olsen-twin courses and a family-values appeal that stretches across age, gender and a fair number of talent barriers. Now, in what may be the most challenging makeover since Courtney Love, miniature golf wants to be taken more seriously than a game meant to be played with a bag of Twizzlers. “Look, how many times does anyone want to hit a ball through a teepee?” grouses Skip Laun, the jauntily named executive director of the Miniature Golf Association of America.
Laun insists there’s a new breed of mini-golfer out there, beyond the adorable tots and irony-seeking Gen-Xers. The windmills and wigwams are still around, but modern mini courses are more likely to look like scaled-down models of Pebble Beach than Kmart versions of Disneyland. “The courses that have started coming up since the mid-’80s are really very challenging,” enthuses Laun, “with undulations and contours that lend themselves to more skilled putting rather than luck.”
Nobody needs to tell the pros that if you’re going to play a serious game, you can’t be teeing off into a doll house. So does this mean our mini golf innocence is soon to be so much water under the itty bitty drawbridge? While there are not as yet any Nike ads featuring sweaty mini-golfers grunting and puking as they swing across their teeny holes, that day may soon be upon us. “Our association has over 40,000 players all over the world,” boasts Laun, “and some of them are making upward of $1,500 playing in a single weekend.” That’s a considerable step up from the free game tokens and troll dolls normally accepted as the primo booty for beating par at the local family fun center.
That kind of lucre still doesn’t approach what Tiger Woods gets for putting on his hat in the morning, or what the less-talented pros get for failing to make the cut in this week’s PGA Championship. It doesn’t matter. As with all true artists, the great ones aren’t in it for abundant riches. Before miniature golf entered his life, says mini golf iron man Elmer Lawson, “Most of the time I was busy working or sleeping. This way I get out to see the world.”
Lawson had played regular-style golf for years, but it was at his local Redding, Pa., miniature golf course that he first heard the siren song of the putter. He was drawn by the glamour. He was drawn by the excitement. He was drawn by the chance to win a gift certificate to the local mall. “I saw they were offering prizes, and it cost only 10 bucks to enter the tournament,” he explains. “Basically, you had nothing to lose.” From then on, the plastic windmills of his mind were set inexorably in motion. In his first competition, Lawson finished fourth. It was a heady brush with the leader board.
Before he knew it, Lawson had entered a milieu in which he could play an entire game in less time than it takes to do a load of laundry, where he was rapidly racking up vouchers for his local shopping megaplex. More important, he was no longer just Elmer Lawson, coating technician for the local lock manufacturer, he was Elmer Lawson, internationally ranked miniature golf player. He went on to bigger tournaments in his home state, then on to the nationals in Florida and, eventually, all the way to a global level championship in Denmark last year. This season, Elmer’s lined up a rigorous schedule of traveling the circuit that will take him to such exotic outposts of mini golf action as Portugal and Switzerland.
Tom Dixon too can testify to the excitement of the mini golf circuit — and this is a man who knows from thrills. “I used to be a rodeo rider,” says the 44-year-old Kansas City cowboy. “I rode bareback for 10 years. I kept getting hurt so many times I had to retire.” It was during those halcyon days that Dixon discovered the joy of mini golf. He had survived wild horses, but could he conquer the rough and tumble world of diminutive driving? The answer, unequivocally, was yes. Now Dixon divides his time between trucking and working the lucrative pro mini-golf circuit. He’s a bona fide star of the miniature golf hierarchy, a man whose picture has been on the cover of European magazines and who has ranked No. 1 in the U.S. two years in a row.
But the Astroturfed road to mini glory is laden with sand traps. The PGA teems with superstars, deep-pocketed sponsors and die-hard fans. Miniature golf does not. While the charms of this genteel recreation might float with the Swiss, any athletic endeavor in the U.S. with the word “mini” remains a mighty tough sell. Overseas, the game is played with white knuckle concentration on impeccable, bonsai sized lawns. In our land, the sport is still often played within putting distance of the change machines.
But if people want to laugh at what Lawson does with his free time, “I just tell them they can play me whenever they want to and I’ll beat them. People think you just go up there and hit the ball, but you’ve got to know how to line it up. It’s a science.” That understanding is starting to take root. “More Americans played miniature golf last year than went camping,” chirps Deborah Paulk, editor of the brand new Golf & Family Fun magazine.
The image boost has been helped along in no small part by ESPN, the network that has broadened the definition of what constitutes “sports” to include cheerleading championships, tree cutting competitions and something known officially as swamp buggy races. Miniature golf tournaments have been airing regularly on the network for five years now, and while they probably don’t generate the same excitement as Fitness Beach, they do garner consistently high ratings among families. This season, viewers can expect more high voltage action, culminating in September with the newly inaugurated American Masters Miniature Golf Championship. Though the very word “Masters” suggests a final nail in the funhouse coffin of old-school miniature golf, the game still retains a few of its arcade trappings. The Florida course where part of the tournament will be held features a smoking, steaming, belching artificial volcano that erupts every 15 minutes. If you’re going, plan your shots accordingly.
Though it now has its own Masters Tournament and international celebrity circuit, the legends of mini golf know they haven’t quite broken the big time yet. But they’re ready. “They’ve made movies of the characters from NASCAR racing,” says Tom Dixon. “Why can’t they do that with miniature golf?” Still, even if Tom Cruise does for miniature golfers what Billy Bob Thornton did for simple-minded homicidal maniacs, the real players will remain humble. Lawson probably still won’t need a caddy. After all, he says, “I only got three clubs.”
With Courtney Love having shed her smeared lipstick and baby-doll dresses for Armani suits and a nice disposition, the rock world finds itself looking for a new punk princess, and the Muffs’ Kim Shattuck just might fit the bill. While Shattuck’s offstage antics may not be as entertaining or as well-publicized as Love’s, her musical prowess merits at least as much attention.
Though the two women are often compared — both hail from the same local scene, and Love’s derision of Shattuck’s bad bleach job inspired the title of the Muffs’ 1995 album “Blonder and Blonder” — Shattuck’s onstage persona seems less contrived than Love’s. Love has worked hard at being a bad accident waiting to happen, but Shattuck’s rebellious nature is in her punk rock blood — evidenced by her shredded screams in the songs “I’m A Dick” and “Red Eyed Troll.”
For six years, the Muffs have been tinkering around the punk scene in Los Angeles, a town that usually connotes slick outfits and one-hit wonders.
Their live shows — just as quick, clean and dirty as the band’s records — are a staple around those parts. And suffice it to say that they’ve got the pop-song thing nailed. It’s harder than it looks — the perfect pop song is a rarity these days, but the Muffs’ follow-up to the polished punk of “Blonder and Blonder,” “Happy Birthday to Me,” is overflowing with three-minute gems.
With Shattuck at the helm on voice and guitar backed up by bassist Ronnie Barnett and drummer Roy McDonald, “Happy Birthday to Me” takes the listener on a blissful, blistering 45-minute joyride. The album’s opener, “Crush Me,” crashes out of the gate, spinning the Muffs’ trademark combination of a deceptively simple three-chord song structure paired with fast-paced bubbly guitars and Shattuck’s husky, honey-tinged vocals. These basic components, coupled with the band’s ability to fuse naiveti and flippant sarcasm, make the Muffs more than your average bubble gum pop-punk band.
From “Pennywhore,” a nod to the sappy country tune, to the relatively slower grind of “All Blue Baby,” Shattuck and company manage to give each track it’s own personality, leaving out any filler. “My Crazy Afternoon” is a free-spirited romp, with lazy rhythms and Shattuck’s compelling harmonies. And the crunchy “Honeymoon,” with its punchy bass line and Shattuck’s raspy vocals, is perhaps the best two minutes of music the Muffs have ever recorded.
Though the band occasionally loses steam when the pace is slowed, as on “Upside Down,” songs like “Happy Birthday to Me” are saved by sing-a-long melodies that feature Shattuck’s distinctive purring and growling, making her sound like the bastard daughter of Joey Ramone and the girl next door. In “The Best Time Around,” Shattuck baits the listener with a hook-filled verse, only to drop the nice girl act as she sings, “You’re out there/you’re groaning away like I care/you’re never gonna learn it, I swear.”
On the surface “All Blue Baby,” could be a love-lost song, but once Shattuck opens her mouth and sings, “Yeah, it’s a lovely sunny day and I wish you’d go away,” all pleasantries end.
And just when things are getting too sugary, too nice, her gruffly sweet vocals slide into guttural yowls, punctuating the songs to remind us that yes, this is a punk band.
with Courtney Love having shed her smeared lipstick and baby-doll dresses for Armani suits and a nice disposition, the rock world finds itself looking for a new punk princess, and the Muffs’ Kim Shattuck just might fit the bill. While Shattuck’s offstage antics may not be as entertaining or as well-publicized as Love’s, her musical prowess merits at least as much attention.
Though the two women are often compared — both hail from the same local scene, and Love’s derision of Shattuck’s bad bleach job inspired the title of the Muffs’ 1995 album “Blonder and Blonder” — Shattuck’s onstage persona seems less contrived than Love’s. Love has worked hard at being a bad accident waiting to happen, but Shattuck’s rebellious nature is in her punk rock blood — evidenced by her shredded screams in the songs “I’m A Dick” and “Red Eyed Troll.”
For six years, the Muffs have been tinkering around the punk scene in Los Angeles, a town that usually connotes slick outfits and one-hit wonders. Their live shows — just as quick, clean and dirty as the band’s records — are a staple around those parts. And suffice it to say that they’ve got the pop-song thing nailed. It’s harder than it looks — the perfect pop song is a rarity these days, but the Muffs’ follow-up to the polished punk of “Blonder and Blonder,” “Happy Birthday to Me,” is overflowing with three-minute gems.
With Shattuck at the helm on voice and guitar backed up by bassist Ronnie Barnett and drummer Roy McDonald, “Happy Birthday to Me” takes the listener on a blissful, blistering 45-minute joyride. The album’s opener, “Crush Me,” crashes out of the gate, spinning the Muffs’ trademark combination of a deceptively simple three-chord song structure paired with fast-paced bubbly guitars and Shattuck’s husky, honey-tinged vocals. These basic components, coupled with the band’s ability to fuse naiveti and flippant sarcasm, make the Muffs more than your average bubble gum pop-punk band.
From “Pennywhore,” a nod to the sappy country tune, to the relatively slower grind of “All Blue Baby,” Shattuck and company manage to give each track it’s own personality, leaving out any filler. “My Crazy Afternoon” is a free-spirited romp, with lazy rhythms and Shattuck’s compelling harmonies. And the crunchy “Honeymoon,” with its punchy bass line and Shattuck’s raspy vocals, is perhaps the best two minutes of music the Muffs have ever recorded.
Though the band occasionally loses steam when the pace is slowed, as on “Upside Down,” songs like “Happy Birthday to Me” are saved by sing-a-long melodies that feature Shattuck’s distinctive purring and growling, making her sound like the bastard daughter of Joey Ramone and the girl next door. In “The Best Time Around,” Shattuck baits the listener with a hook-fille verse, only to drop the nice girl act as she sings, “You’re out there/you’re groaning away like I care/you’re never gonna learn it, I swear.”
On the surface “All Blue Baby,” could be a love-lost song, but once Shattuck opens her mouth and sings, “Yeah, it’s a lovely sunny day and I wish you’d go away,” all pleasantries end.
And just when things are getting too sugary, too nice, her gruffly sweet vocals slide into guttural yowls, punctuating the songs to remind us that yes, this is a punk band.
heroin used to be regarded as something used exclusively by Wrong Side of the Trackers — creeps you only read about in cheap ’50s shock pulp books featuring women falling out of their dresses on the covers. Gray-skinned old Losers popped dope into their blackened veins, along with mumbling perverts and non-union scab laborers and those who robbed cars and beat hookers. Dope was Bad, and the people who did it were in some low section of urban earthly hell that most of us were thankful to have no contact with.
Today, heroin is more glam than ever before, having recently killed a variety of exciting young movie and rock stars. The nasty old tar monkey is strutting with its new collar and spats into some of the more prestigious social scenes. Smack has shirked its old Bogeyman image like a client of Hill and Knowlton. Its vintage taboo, replete with the cuteness of classic Tough Guy tattoos from the ’40s, seems to be a perfect holding pattern for disenchanted youth. A whole new breed of the Rich and Fabulous are pulling the wicked old sleeping bag over their heads and watching life evaporate into a low, cope-able din, letting the White Horse carry them slowly out to the deepest parts of an uncrossable river.
When I was growing up, drugs still bore a sheen of Studio 54 chic, despite numerous attempts by the public schools to “Scare us Straight” by showing us Drug Ed. films of the college kid who tore his eyeballs out on PCP in the ’60s. Drugs looked like an alluring recreation to us in high school: expensive and glamorous and totally annihilating of suburban ennui. In the ’80s, narcotics seemed like the quickest way of getting a new personality if your old one wasn’t working. It was easy to get submerged in the concrete identity quirks provided by one of the Big Three narcotics — cocaine, speed and heroin, the white powders. (Ecstasy and other hallucinogens were shuffled into a less serious pile — the Children’s Happy Meals of the misdemeanor possession world.)
Heroin users were classically blasé and nonchalant, with a low strain of romance weakly bleating under the ghosts of their characters. We used to say that junk addicts were unfulfilled lovers, heroin being the reliably demanding invisible spouse. Speed Freaks were colorful and overaccessorized and exhausting, and very Engaged with Life. We used to say that Speed Freaks were unfulfilled artists. I once belonged to this category. I fiddled half-assedly with smack a few times but I always thought it was boring. I used to compare walking into a roomful of people on heroin to walking in on a bunch of turtles with their heads all sucked in.
Coke addicts were the least attractive of the lot, because of their total lack of anything remotely resembling loyalty or honor. There is an unspoken, kindly brotherhood among even the worst H. junkies, and a communal love of New Age blather and astrology among speed freaks, but coke addicts, particularly those who smoked or shot the stuff, were the lowest scum drippers in the pit — they were invariably liars and thieves and deluded Big Talkers, horrible bores with falsely grand impressions of themselves and mouths you’d love to fill with two-part epoxy and seal up forever. Their minds worked like lab rats hitting the gratification door again and again. They would think nothing of chewing through your chest to get to what they wanted. Their high was perceived by other drug fiends as being stupid and desperate. Theirs was not as dignified as the other narco-identities.
The first heroin junkie I knew was a girl named Beverly who had always been legendary in my suburbs as a Great Beauty. She was a ballerina with a tangled mane of red hair and Maude Frizon shoes who drove a Porsche 914 with sexy recklessness — she regularly pulled squealing U-turns in the middle of the Golden Gate Bridge. Her only flaw was that she affected a fake South African/British accent, claiming it was because of her parents. She was older than me and had the respect of friends I idolized, so she was a star to me before I ever met her.
By the time I finally did meet her, she was a full-fledged junkie straight from the alphabet jungle of New York, with a tall, shellacked black mohawk and thick, sooty cat-eye makeup and a capital H Habit that needed a lot of urgent attention. I remember fawning over her like she was some kind of exotic wild beast, even though she was fashionably rude and my interest in her was perceived as some kind of awful weakness on my part. This attitude would last until she was flat broke and in the first real Cold Sweat I’d ever seen, pleading on the sofa with tears in her eyes and terrible involuntary muscle spasms that caused her arms to jerk out like Dr. Strangelove. I couldn’t bear to watch her that way — I wanted to preserve my idolatry. To wipe out how pathetic she was, I’d get on a cross-town bus and score her some smack. Naturally, once she got it into her blood she hated me for being nice to her again, but it was a relief to have her be comfortably cruel again.
She and her Hungarian boyfriend had a terrible relationship. I had an ex-junkie boyfriend who once described Addict Love by saying, “Junkies like to take each other hostage.” She ended up willfully OD’ing in his bathroom on Christmas Eve, an act of revenge for his getting a new girlfriend. “I’ll make you sorry!” was the last thing anybody heard her say. She was only 22 at the time, but had already given up all hope of having a different kind of life — she seemed too far gone to herself, and the undertow of that idea, the seemingly impossible amount of emotional and physical labor it would require for her to change, became insurmountable. She stepped out in a short, angry blast — a petty Fuck You in which she decided, for the last time, that she was going to have the Last Word.
There is nothing less attractive than watching someone you know nod out in a bar, mouth in maximum fly-catching slackness, bobbing to and fro with their eyes rolled out. It’s more intimacy than you want, like watching someone wet the bed — you can never look at them the same way afterwards. But you knew that junk had gotten hold of one of your peers in the worst way when they started shrugging off their various failures to comply with the rules of society with a sad, self-effacing chuckle, chalking up their lameness to a pervasive Inability to Function they seemed resigned to living with. Smack gradually takes the edges off people’s personalities in a bad way, even when they’re not high. They start getting apologetic, like they constantly reek to themselves, and assume that everyone else sees them as weak sacks of shit.
Beautiful girls I knew who, previous to junk use, would look at me with no more interest than a hungry cobra would a frozen steak, suddenly had new, sadly dotty personalities and indiscriminate friendliness. “Hiiiiiiiiiii!” they’d say, with the inflection curling apologetically down at the end. “Do you want to come sit at my table? What are you dooooooing?” they’d say with the soggy tone of your soused, over-the-hill and depressed aunt, trying to make conversation so as to stop up the constant screaming horror hole of loneliness that was bleeding them away.
It took me the longest time to recognize the signs of somebody high on junk. Finally I realized that on blue-eyed people, the pupil dilation glazed their eyes with something translucent and gelatinous like napalm, and people who used to be cool and aloof became over-accessible in a way that was as emotionally dangerous as driving in a blackout drunk.
Heroin users seem to evolve together into a coagulated troupe of character-driven professional relationships not unlike a theater cast or baseball team. There was one character named Nick Nod, a dealer, who was famous for falling completely asleep in improbable positions — like standing up with a shoe in his hand and remaining that way for three hours.
Friends of mine got high with Courtney Love, back when she was still a whining fat girl with a puffy nose and nobody thought she had any hope of getting any kind of career, and her quirk was that when you came out of the dope dream you were in, you’d find Courtney gazing into your face saying “Do you like me? Do you think I’m pretty? Hold my hand. Will you be my friend?” I had one boyfriend who had a revolving-door relationship to heroin that always pissed me off no end. Some bandmate of his had to thump him back to life one day after he OD’d (this was something that happened to him fairly regularly) and he responded the next day by showing up at her house with a bouquet of dead, wilted flowers. Kind of a junk joke. Rumors abounded of people we knew dying every month or so, and being revived in the emergency room, brought back from turning blue only to immediately leave the hospital and score again, the anti-junk antidote having removed their high.
I hope heroin doesn’t get more popular than it is right now. Half of the people I knew in the ’80s are dead, because they didn’t have enough respect for the big lethal dragon, thinking they could flirt and fuck with it and somehow tap-dance away from the inevitable retribution. Most of them never even saw the last big swat that took them out, or had any idea it was coming. Nobody’s life is so disposable, I would tell their ghosts now, if I saw them. You had no idea how loved you were.
