ADVENTURES IN PUTT-PUTT: Best of Boomers Palm Springs Shoot-Out Edition

Last weekend, my friend Jash and I drove out to Palm Springs for the day to meet up with Sly, who was on Holiday with our college friend Rodrigo. Of course, by the time Jash and I arrived in the desert resort town, Sly and Rodrigo were in the throes of poolside relaxation twenty miles away and thus would only be able to meet up with us in two hours’ time for dinner. So what, pray tell, could we do to pass the afternoon? Well, Jash spied a miniature golf course — the ubiquitous Boomers franchise — and suggested playing a round or two. Who was I to turn down such a novel whimsy? Besides, as my parents and brother will tell you, I was quite the putt-putt fiend in my youth, and to this day, I’ve never turned down an opportunity to hit the mini links.
Well, Jash and I took to the greens, and of course, many pictures were taken. After the jump, a cheery photographic journey through the many glorious (read: decrepit) wonders of Boomers…

Jash and I hit the road to Palm Springs at about 2:00 PM. It’s a beautiful day, save for the cheesy Corvette whose license plate reads “JST RM4 2” I guess there wasn’t enough space to write “JST RM4 DOUCHE.”

En route, we stop off for a late lunch at Newport Seafood in the San Gabriel Valley. It’s one of my favorite restaurants, and the beef dish you see there (bo luc lac) is pure heaven.

Mmmmm… giant lobsters. They’re probably dead now.

Back on the road, we see a Barbie doll enduring a rather sadistic brand of torture. To her credit, she still won’t rat out who she works for.

As we approach Palm Springs, we encounter a vast array of windmills. Here’s just the first few, juxtaposed against the mountains. It’s quite stunning, really.

Further mountain glory.

I love all the layers of activity here: cars, houses, hills, windmills. Unfortunately, reduced down to a small picture like this, it’s not as impressive. So… yeah. Let’s move on.

To give you an idea of how huge these windmills are, take a look at the Mack Truck on the highway. Now look at the windmills. Yeah. They were enormous.

More windmills. I couldn’t resist snapping photos of them every two seconds.

Ah. ORDER.

Okay, last windmill pic. I swear.

At last we arrive at Boomers. There are children everywhere — something I naturally detest. However, the allure of putt-putt is so strong that I am willing to overlook this regrettable situation.

Things start off a bit bleakly for me. I’m quite rusty as I have not honed my craft in about seven years.

Before moving on, I take a replenishing sip from my Starbucks venti mocha Frappuccino. Compounding the yuppie-ish quality of the moment is the presence of Trader Joe’s in the background.

Alas, the icy mix of sugar, chocolate, and coffee does little to improve my game.

Jash, meanwhile, seems to be faring much better.

I should note that this proved to be one of the shabbiest miniature golf courses I’d ever seen. The Boomers organization should be ashamed of themselves.

This putting green doubled as a squishy bog, what with the random puddles of anonymous liquid that had accumulated for no apparent reason.

A pagoda in the distance led us to believe we might soon be taking an enchanting journey to the Far East.

But this was all we got. Not one of the more creative courses I’d ever played on…

Jash tees up, hoping to channel the spirit of Confucius in this most authentic replication of Chinese lands.

Way to screw THAT up, JASH.

They call me the Putt-Putt Panda.

And just like a panda playing miniature golf, I’m very uncoordinated.

Jash, meanwhile, decides to take on GOD.

Behold the sacred pagoda of Boomers!

Seriously, I’m still on the same hole. I am bringing great shame to my ancestors.

I’m not sure you can see, but the people behind me are laughing at me.

Oh hai!

Around hole 9, we take a breather. We aren’t actually tired. It’s just that the people behind us were very fast, and we wanted to let them pass so that Jash and I could actually enjoy the game rather than feeling rushed. Of course, as soon as they passed, the world’s fastest children showed up and also rushed us; so we let them pass too. (They were rather impatient and would actually start playing the hole while we were still on it. Way to intercede, PARENTS).

A view of the Boomers facilities. It looks nicer than it is.

Old Faithful erupts in the midst of the Boomers lagoon.

Next stop is The Kremlin, or at least a shabby replication of it.

Half the wood was falling off this piece of junk. Socio-economic metaphor??? (Probably not)

Even worse, the green was so run-down that it kept swallowing people’s golfballs. It was a veritable PURGE of fun.

In honor of our environs, I adopt an angry Stalin pose.

Jash, meanwhile, goes for calmer, more rational Leon Trotsky look.

Around this time, we discover that there are actually three different 18-hole courses intermingled together. We realize that we don’t have to be rushed by the stupid kids (who somehow kept coming in waves, no matter how many times we let them advance ahead of us). Instead, we just gave up on order and decided to do the holes that seemed most appealing (of which there were FEW — very bad designs, I must reiterate). We called our technique “The Best of Boomers.”

I look on as my ball rolls gently towards the green. Perhaps it’s time for a comeback?

No.

I believe the words “GET THE HELL OUT OF THE WAY!” were uttered by Jash.

Oooh. Stalker cam!

As I tee up, I tell Jash to keep the camera trained on me in case I get a hole in one. Sure enough…

HOLE IN ONE!!!!

We now pause to look at some ducks.

As the sun sets, we approach a rather Dutch region of the course.

Jash hits a bad shot. How the tables have turned.

Way to choke, JASH.

With this stroke, I might be able to take the lead…

It’s looking good…

It’s looking really good!

AWESOME!

And here are the results. Through the front nine, Jash had 23 points while I had 31. Ouch. But through the back nine (actually, ten — we did an extra hole by accident), I had 31 points to his 42. Final score: Jash 65 points, me 62. I win!

Wait a second, I’m the winner, and yet it’s ME giving Sly a back massage? Something is wrong here.