Margarita Madness 2008
During my childhood, my family went to the beach annually, and as the calendar trudged toward the end of July, the boredom of hot, humid Pittsburgh summers gave way to anticipation of a week of miniature golf, ice cream, and staring at women 8 years my senior who would never give me the time of day. As we grew older, the vacations grew more expensive, and when my older brother enrolled in college, the annual pilgrimage to the beach became a luxury we could no longer afford. That was the mid-90's.
A couple years ago, the tradition was reborn, albeit in a slightly different form. Less miniature golf, more torture at the hands of a full-length championship course with obscene greens fees. Less Coke, more beer. Less staring at women 8 years my senior who would never give me the time of day, more staring at women 10 years my junior who would never give me the time of day. In other words, though we're occasionally loathe to admit it, traditions are not immune to evolution. And, entirely new ones are born.
Which brings me to this claim: the first thing you should know about the inaugural Margarita Madness is that it started as an accident. My sister-in-law was preparing a Mexican-themed dinner, and my brother and I decided that we should serve margaritas with it. Because only terrorists don't like margaritas. After making a full batch -- something suitable for a half dozen adults, none of whom needed to drive that evening -- my brother and I discovered that we would be the only ones drinking. The excuses ranged from "I don't like margaritas" to "I used to like tequila, but the mere smell of it now makes me want to vomit, and I'd rather not explore the reasons for this in front of my parents."
After finishing the first batch of margaritas, we (that is, my brother and I) were confronted with a partially empty bottle of tequila and a partially empty bottle of margarita mix. And, really, who wants to drag those bottles back home when it would be much easier to let your liver do the heavy lifting? (When it comes to alcohol, my brother and I generally believe that most problems are actually opportunities in disguise.) I believe we weighed the merits of making another batch of margaritas for about 13 seconds, and it was probably about as balanced as those "debates" on Fox News where the 32-year-old blonde with the top-notch boob job argues that George W. Bush is the best president ever and the 73-year-old white male former Family Research Council lobbyist argues that, no, he's only the second best president behind Reagan. So, we made the second batch of margaritas, we finished the second batch of margaritas, and before I move on to the rest of this anecdote (really, it's going nowhere grandiose, if you must know), I think there's an important truth here that should not be glossed over: one of the best things about having a brother is that not only will he fully endorse your dumbest plans, he'll often assist you in their implementation and even suggest ways to elevate the whole endeavor to ever-loftier levels of stupidity. It doesn't matter whether you're both 3 or 30.
Of course, once you're a margarita reservoir on wheels, there's only one reasonable thing to do: go miniature golfing. I don't have any decent stories from the miniature golf portion of the evening, but I can tell you that mini golf is more challenging, more rewarding, and much more fun when you're drunk. I also vaguely recall a half hour long conversation about the age/legality of an extraordinarily attractive blonde who was also golfing. Those types of conversations, as it happens, are also more challenging, rewarding, and fun after a few adult beverages. Like most fun nights -- whether alcohol is involved or not -- I remember having a thoroughly good time without being able to pinpoint precisely what made it so enjoyable. For others, however, I think a fair amount of the entertainment was derived from watching my brother and me navigate a miniature golf course while trying to act sober in front of all the 10-year-olds.
Naturally, the following year, expectations were very high for Margarita Madness. Unfortunately, both my brother and I were exhausted from a demoralizing round of golf, and following two margaritas apiece, my brother stretched out on the living room floor of our condo and was asleep shortly thereafter. This event is now referred to in my family as Margarita Sadness. We have pictures.
Fortunately, life sometimes offers you a shot at redemption, and so this past year my brother and I felt a near-sacred obligation to restore to Margarita Madness an atmosphere whose festiveness was exceeded only by its irresponsibility. And, in retrospect, I have to admit that having a fridge with a crushed ice maker was a huge facilitator that evening. An evening that yielded an empty bottle of tequila and a rousing game of mini-golf. Rousing largely because my brother, sister-in-law, and I were playing for the family championship. Despite being a living, breathing Jose Cuervo cartoon, my brother took a one stroke lead over his wife and a two stroke lead over me into the 17th hole. After placing our tee shots about 6 inches from each other and one foot from the hole, my brother confidently strode up to the hole and tapped in my golf ball. He didn't realize his mistake until I started fussing like a wild turkey being administered a surprise prostate exam, at which point he pulled my ball out of the cup, replaced it, tapped his own in, and insisted that everything was cool. And, I wanted to be like HEY DUDE, THIS ISN'T IRAQ. YOU DON'T GET TO CLAIM THAT EVERYTHING'S OKAY WHEN IT'S NOT. The following morning, my dad, who has recently become obsessed with the rules of golf for reasons I do not understand, looked up the penalty for playing the wrong ball in the official USGA rules book. It's a two stroke penalty, which would mean that my sister-in-law and I share the family championship and the entirely worthless bragging rights that accompany it. But questions abound: was my brother right in insisting that everything was cool? After all, we were standing next to a large plastic ornamental elephant at the time, and she didn't seem to be upset about the apparent rules violation. Or, do USGA rules matter, even if you're much more concerned that the family of four behind you can smell the tequila on your breath? Whatever the case, the events on the back nine are precisely the kind of controversy that will make next year's round of family championship miniature golf stupidly important. And, really, I wouldn't have it any other way. Because if I were to select two modifiers to describe Margarita Madness, I would be hard-pressed to choose better than "stupid" and "important."
