We were traveling south on Guadalupe, en route to the disc golf course when a sudden wave of panic came over me. I realized I had left my hash-pipe at home, and we would have to return to grab it. Nothing ruins a good day on the links quite like the absence of a steady supply of smokable grass. Heavily dismayed, we turned the great red beast around and sped toward the corner of 32nd and Grooms as swiftly as the wind would take us.

When we got back to my place , I discovered that my pipe had been in my bag all along.

“You imbecile! Make me turn the goddamn car around for what? For nothing!”

The trip, however, was not a total waste. I discovered I had left my vitamin C tablets along with my lemonade and the pint of rum I had planned to drink with it. One must be fully prepared for any acid-induced disc golf adventure. Besides, the extra time would ensure that things were right on top of us as we began the round. That is if we made it to the park alive. The odds of such a miraculous occurrence were shortening with each heavy, awkward breath. The trees lining Grooms were already starting to loom further overhead than they had almost an hour ago.

That before we ate the first of the liquid. The stop sign at 33rd and Speedway was no longer an octagon. One of the sides was missing, and it kept haphazardly moving about on me. My mind tried to search for a word to describe this strange new shape, but none came to mind.

“Take 29th. We can find our way to Lamar from there. I want to see those neighborhoods, drive through those trees, stare at a house or two.” For a moment, I imagined what we might look like to an innocent bystander. Someone wholly oblivious to our deviance.

“Righty-oh good sir knight. 29th to Lamar. Lamar to 24th and Pease,” my driver states to confirm.

“Yes. That is the game plan. Holy sweet Jesus on a stick! Watch out!” I scream as an armadillo the size of a red flyer runs across Speedway en route to the hookah bar.

“Jesus tap-dancing Christ! What are you screaming about?” the man to my left asked in a state of complete confusion.

“Did you not see that fucking thing? It had to weigh a hundred pounds.” He looked at me in a way that let me know he knew not of what I spoke. “That armadillo. Never mind.”

“Quit your babbling and stick your head out the window. You’re getting ashes on my seats,” the pilot advised me. At once this seems totally reasonable. I have taken a heavy dose of psychedelic drugs. I probably hallucinated the armadillo. This reminded me of the contents of my right front pocket. So I dug into the depths of my cargo shorts and retrieved my tin of Scripture mints. I opened it and carefully chose two fish shaped mints as I saw the words of Matthew 4:17. I gave them to my driver and demanded he eat them before I took two more out of the tin and pop them in my own mouth. A sense of irony coursed through my veins and brought a smile to my face. I would love have had Robert Jeffress with me when I dropped them out. The look on his face would have been worth having to listen to him.

In my window, I saw a middle class family in a front yard. Dad was drinking a beer. Mom was chasing her five-year-old son through the yard around the sprinkler. They were all laughing and having a jolly good time.

Then came the beat up Toyota Corolla. “Xanadu” was blasting from the speakers. I was hanging my head out the window, a cigarette dangling dangerously from my lips, wearing a Seven dust A-shirt. I saw them. They saw me. I stared in bewilderment at the white flowers that were blooming on their blue bathing suits. Junior started crying. Mom swept him up and looked to me, horrified. Dad dropped his beer. I smiled and waved as we pulled away from a stop sign.

Going down 29th, rod iron railings and stained glass windows danced for me, but the music was all wrong. It felt off-rhythm.

“Dead! We need Dead!” I screamed toward the driver’s seat while I franticly searched for my case of compact discs. As I found what I had been seeking, he said something like, “Well, put the motherfucker in and for the love of all that is holy stop your fucking screaming.”

“Easy killer. I was simply expressing that the Grateful Dead were of vital importance to my continued positive experience.”

“Keep up that screaming business and I will express my foot straight up your positive experience’s ass,” the savage said calmly. “Candy Man” seemed most appropriate, but “Box of Rain” came on and was immediately satisfying. The lawns surrounding us were crawling, breathing, groupings of strange small creatures. The road was starting to rise and fall in front of us. I recoiled in horror when I realized we were heading to a major intersection and an important crossroads in our journey. The right move would have us at Pease Park inside ten minutes. The wrong meant a crash-course through a residential neighborhood and eventually Mopac. It was time to see how the captain was doing.

“Let me see your eyes,” I said to the wheelman as we stopped at the light at 29th and Lamar. He turned his head to me, lowered his Oakley’s, and as soon as they reached the tip of his nose, all was told. The black holes that were his pupils had drawn his irises past the event horizon, stretched them out like spaghetti before they collapsed upon themselves into infinite gravity and the abyss.

“My god man! You’re twisted,“ I mumbled.

“We only have a few more blocks. I can make it,” muttered the mouth below the glasses as if it were trying to convince itself as much as me. By the time we navigate the beast to the park we were nostrils deep in acid frenzy. “Candy Man” came on as we pulled into the parking lot, so we sat and listened and celebrated with two more Jesus mints each.

We noticed the trailer set up on the way to the first tee box, so we stopped to look at the plastic. I became immediately enthralled with an orange candy plastic disc, but I soon discover it is a putter. It would have been a poor decision to buy such a useless, yet attractive item. I found myself reaching into my left front pocket for my wallet only to discover that my unpsychedelified mind left it put away at home. I thank myself thoroughly for having such great foresight. Nothing is as dangerous as giving free reign of your pocketbook to someone in the midst of psychedelic drugs. Especially yourself. Moody noticed my move to the pocket and offered to help.

“I like the color on this one. Nice and bright. I bet this fucker glows in the dark,” I said in poorly executed effort to maintain.

“Well, not exactly. They do make glow in the dark discs. I think I have a couple in stock. . .” Goddamn son of a monkey’s ass, I got this bastard TALKING. This would surely delay our game at least a half hour and completely turn this trip sour if not immediately remedied. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my driver leaning against a tree staring down at a pile of rocks resembling white beetles.

“Hey man, let’s throw some putts before the round,” I called out, cutting off whatever Moody was trying to say to me. I walked over to grab my companion, and then plopped my bag down about ten feet from the practice basket. When I picked up my tie-died Rhyno and addressed the basket, I realized just how interesting this day could turn out. Muscle memory has always amazed me. My brain was elsewhere, but my body took control, and a few clanged chains later it was time to tee off. We were unexpectedly joined by a former member of the United States Navy: a strange shirtless fellow with a bulging gut and some kind of tribal tattoo across his shoulders. He still wore his hair high and tight, and had a face that screamed Republican. He’s a narcotics agent, I thought. Pig-fucker is going to call the authorities.

A glance from my bodyguard let me know he sensed trouble as well. We conspired to bombard the poor sap with menacing vibrations and hope for a quick departure. Our Jedi mind trick was successful, as he only stayed through the first hole, picked up his phone and said some business about needing to go pick up his wife. Relief washed over me like a tidal wave of grape Kool-Aid. Upon reaching the second hole, I could see the life-force of every living thing between me and the yellow basket some 320 feet away. The overwhelming beauty made me laugh out loud to keep from bawling. My cohort looked up from the ant-hill he had discovered and asked, “What?”

“Look ahead. Have you ever seen things quite like this?” I queried, spreading my arms and spinning.

When his mouth dropped, I knew he saw what I did. We proceeded through the trees and finished up the hole and moved on to Three and the first throw over the creek. This is nerve-racking without the hindrance of a head full of acid. At this point, it was almost unbearable. However, my bright pink Wraith went exactly where I had planned it to: over the water. My partner did not fare so well. Upon further investigation, it was discovered that he could avoid getting wet and still retrieve the disc.

“I just need a really big stick,” he said while striding past me on a determined path toward a pile of dead limbs. He returned with a six and a half foot “stick” as big around as his arm. The look on his face as he walked by was something Nicholson would make when he was up to no good. I watched him haul this log down the embankment, biceps ripping out of his shirt and wondered for a brief moment if I might be gay. I realized I am not when I turned to see this cute little Latina girl in tight black athletic shorts and a bright pink sports bra run by. These day trips of mine have a tendency to undo evolution. Mouth agape and tongue hanging, I attempted to crack a one-liner, but a George Bluth wolf call was all I could express. My counterpart’s disc whizzed by me and landed behind the reeds. He emerged from his lie, still with that Nicholson look on his face.

“I never lost one so far,” he said triumphantly. We made it through the next two holes with a fair amount of success and relatively little adventure. Then we ran into Six. And trouble.

On the way to Six’s tee box, I knew I wanted throw my neon green Valkyrie on an anhyzer line to end up right next to the basket. When I got there, everything went horribly awry. My release angle was flat instead of slightly toward my body, and the natural low speed fade of the disc took it straight into the northbound lanes of Lamar. With panic crawling up my body like an anaconda, Mr. Nice Guy decided to be an asshole.

“Oh yeah, sucks to be you. Have fun getting that one,“ my companion viciously taunted while doing a horrible rendition of Axl’s dance from the “Sweet Child O’ Mine” video. I crawled to the top of the hill and laid in wait for an appropriate time to cross to the median. I found a break in the flow of traffic, and made a run for it. When I reached the median, I realized it was much narrower than it appeared from the sidewalk. Before I had adequate time to process this revelation, the lights turned green and I was standing on a sixteen inch island of concrete in a sea of cars moving 35 miles per hour on either side of me. At the first sign of relief, I grabbed the disc out of the far lane and hurdled the median in a mad dash for safety. Only two cars had to screech to a stop to avoid hitting me. There were no collisions. I consider that a great success.

Rattled, we finished up the hole and scooted to Seven and the first spot to smoke a much needed bowl and slam down some lemonade rum punch.

“I almost got killed out there. Hand me that jug when you’re done with it,” I demanded of the caddy. It was somewhere in the neighborhood of a hundred degrees, and we had both soaked through our clothes. The trees that lined the fairway were spinning like giant brown barber poles, and the ground was breathing. The bartender handed me the jug of lemonade and I took a few good swigs, and we continued to make our way through the course.

From the box, the trees at the front of the fairway framed the rest of the hole in a fashion that gave the appearance of a pinball machine. Rings of lights were working up the trees toward the end of the fairway. Fear of the manifestation of a giant silver ball led to a pair of mediocre drives. All-around amateur play landed bogeys for the deaf, mute, blind kid and I.

Eight was rough. I hit one of the closer trees, and he ended up overshooting his upshot into the bush behind the hole. By the grace of the Great Magnet, his disc landed in a safe zone away from the swarm of Wang Doodles whirling about behind the basket.

When we reached Nine, the headwind was bringing some big purple clouds to us. These puffs of smoke about ten thousand feet in the air were looming toward us, and it reminded me of the Nothing in The Neverending Story. By some miracle neither of us drove into the creek. I manage to pull a par out of my ass when I hit a 25 foot putt. The chains were dancing like a legion of silver belly dancers. It amazed me that my body was still able to hurl a disc that accurately from that distance.

Ten was an interesting experience. The branches of the mesquite trees were waving around, tempting us to throw low so they could slap them down. The beast with me failed to heed the warning he’d been given, and his low drive was slapped into what I was certain would be the middle of the first southbound lane of Lamar. In reality, he landed just inside the road. I never gave the trees a chance by sending my Wraith high and right. I landed in gimmie range from the short position, and in a prime spot to par. The trees were angered with this and at least three of them slapped my head with a low leafy branch on the way by. We managed to go into Eleven with pars under our belts. The clouds were really coming in. Strange vibrations filled the air. The box was mine, and with a new wave of confidence, I decided to go for it despite a nagging urge to lay up.

“This is how you park it,” I said to my student, right before I sent my Starfire well off to the right and wll away from where I intended to throw. I knew the fade took it somewhere in the middle of the woods on the other side of the river. My competitor laughed, then pulled out his putter and layed up like any intoxicated man with a lick of sense. I went ahead and let him throw across as I began my search for the disc. I was pleasantly surprised when I saw it laying next to a blue tarp. I immediately set a path for it.

It took some time to navigate through the trees on the way to the disc. I didn’t want to upset the grass-shaped worms crawling on my shoes. Who knows what they may have done to me. The possibilities were endlessly nasty, so I tried to focus on the bright yellow spot next to the bright blue spot up ahead. How convenient, I thought, that my disc would land near such a thing. It must be my lucky day.

As I approached the disc to retrieve it, I noticed the tarp waving. This was completely expected, and I went about my business. When I reached down to grab my Starfire, the tarp flew up and a loud barking shortly followed. I added three pounds to my pants when I saw an angry hyena running toward me. I then realized that it was not an animal, but a vagrant who had just had his sleep disturbed. I managed to grab the disc and my bag while sprinting and screaming, “Sorry, man! I was just grabbing my disc!”

I ran past my savior and said,” Pick it up, man. Next hole. Next. Hole. I’ll explain later.”

Still in a jog, we reach the tee box for Twelve where I relayed the previous two minutes‘ happenings.

“I thought I heard barking. It was a homeless guy?” he asked in awe.

“Yeah, it was a fucking bum. With big, pointy teeth. Thought it was a wild dog at first,” I said to him as he loaded us another bowl. An experience like that deserved more pot. And more pot deserved more lemonade. The break did us well, and we managed to throw around the big tree in the middle of the fairway and end up in good position.

The mulch left over after the trees were cleared for the next three holes resembled small, cedar colored snakes, and we had to stomp all over them on the way up to our discs. We tiptoed gingerly to our discs, hoping not to anger the creatures into attacking. We got through unscathed. A couple of close-miss upshots, and we left the hole with pars.

On the way to Thirteen, two sunflower plants were dancing with each other in a way that made me wonder if this were a natural phenomenon or the work of my Scripture Mints. There were two guys sitting on the box at Thirteen who had obviously just smoked a bowl of grass and had most likely not partaken in any of the fun my friend and I had. My curiosity got the best of me.

“Excuse me, fellas. Can you tell me what these two weeds are doing?” I shouted, pointing at the dancing duo.

“What?” one of them asks, confused.

“These two weeds, are they getting blown over by a breeze? Or,” I asked, making sure to be as transparent as possible. “Is it the drugs?”

“The drugs, man. The drugs,” the other one said. They both grinned and were gone in a flash.

The peak had come and gone as I was suddenly fully aware of my surroundings. The trees weren’t making me laugh so hard anymore. I was now able to focus and think in a relatively clear fashion. Emphasis on the “relatively.“ This was going to be needed for this hole. The redone number Thirteen is a beast of a hole. I consider making a five to be a feat worthy of celebration. At this point, I would have been satisfied with a seven. We were able to avoid trees on our drives which absolutely bewildered me. Neither of us landed in a good position, and we were forced to take what the course would allow. I ended up in the fairway at the base of the trees, the amateur wound up in the middle of them.

“Have fun with that,” I called, lumbering toward my disc. He got out of the woods, and I threw into even tighter woods when my Wasp went a little over stable on me.

“And you have fun with that, sir, “ the bastard poked back at me. I managed to get myself out and two putt.

Fourteen and Fifteen were surprisingly unremarkable. No barking homeless men, adventures into the middle of Lamar, or dancing sunflowers. After missing a putt on Fourteen, I went bogey-par into Sixteen. By this time, our bodies are covered in so much sweat, I am reminded of two-a-days, and I crave a blue Pop-Ice popsicle.

“After this, I’m going to introduce you to New Orleans Snow Balls. They’re the best fucking snow cones ever,” my teammate informed me.

“Awesome, I was just thinking about how good a popsicle would be after this, but a snow cone sounds delicious.”

This bit of information gave me an added boost, and I boomed my Starfire about 325 feet. Much to my amazement, the prodigy flicked a disc about thirty feet past mine.

“Damn son, that’s about the best I’ve ever thrown a disc, and you come out and just boom one like that,“ I said, proud of the boy. A wide-right midrange, followed by a two-putt lands me a bogey, while he parked it by the basket and dropped in for par.

“The box is yours, my man,” I congratulated on our way to Seventeen.

He found the hole intimidating because he prefers to throw a forearm. When I saw him grip the disc for a back hand, I thought he would do the right thing. He attempted the tunnel shot under the trees and clipped one on the right, which sent him into the forest on the left.

I took the safer route and swung my Wraith around the big tree and found myself fifty feet from the basket. I let the novice pull out into the fairway for no penalty to shorten the distance between myself and the snow cone. He got his second shot within thirty feet. We two putt, and crossed the river to Eighteen and the end of this leg of our adventure.

The sun was starting to come down, and the second wave of the day began. The stones in the fairway moved about and multiplied like armored gerbils. I sent my drive out to the left into the field. My companion sent his disc low and long and managed to land himself in front of the mandatory tree. He would have been in fantastic position had he not been forced to stand ankle-deep in grass-colored millipedes for his second shot. I simply had to avoid the arm of the tree-man standing in front of the basket. I was unsuccessful, and landed in front of the curtain of leaves hiding the basket. From this point, it took us each two shots to sink our putters. On the way to the car, he let me know he took the game, and I took his word for it, not wanting to further delay a snow cone and a cold shower.

Sweating from every pore of our bodies, we fell into the red Corolla, turned on some Spanish guitar, and took off for Airport and New Orleans Snow Balls.