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| - You know those tacky "Point of Pride" signs that you see spread out around the Valley, the ones with the hokey Arizona flag emblazoned on an oversized oval marker denoting a place that we, as locals, should take an extra moment to admire, lest we have a reference for culture when (if) that point itself ever arises when in the company of our non-local friends, be they friends, family, vacationers, snow-birds, banditos, and the occasional Sheriff Joe pop-quizzes, where failure would bring you 8-to-10?
Yeah those.
City officials need to walk out into the Oval Tree forest and chop down the biggest one for the 16th Hole at the TPC, home of the FBR open and drunkest, rowdiest, and most exceedingly absurd Point of Pride in the Valley.
There is no other place or event that exists like this one does on the face of the planet. Isn't that what we Phoenicians are always searching for? Something completely Phoenix-centric? We lay claim to the only event of this kind, and as ridiculous as it is, unequivocally OURS.
So, the 16th hole can be reviewed as an event ... however ... those who go to the FBR are drawn to this 162 yards of fun ... and since it has a definitive boundary, it should be reviewed as a bar/lounge/dive.
Okay, so the best part are the people. Fifteen thousand of them, sitting perched on either $5K suites [for the highbrow drunks] or on the hill above the green [for the lowbrow drunks, aka, you and I]
These are people who bring dates to a golf event. They wear Plus-fours, and Tam O'Shanters, and knickerbockers ... layered pastel polos, firecracker shorts, and stilletos. Heck, even the people who put on the event brazenly wear head-to-toe midnight blue velour track suits. Its fabulously odious!
These are the people who are tailgating for a 'gentleman's game', and to take it a step further, post-game celebrate in a tent hosted by all of the valley's big nightclubs. Right there in the golfclub's parkinglot.
This is almost like the scene in Dazed and Confused where Mike opines to Tony in the school parking lot: "Not only are they allowing this, they are selling concessions!" Whatever man, everyone here is just L-I-V-I-N.
So, you park your crew on the side of the hill, because remember, we're saving our change for beer money and not corporate suites, and the big deal is, IT'S ACCEPTABLE TO HECKLE! Craziness.
Now, don't get me wrong. Most of it is your typical, uncreative monkey-flinging shit-talk from Chad and Brent (who's friend call "Cheddar" and "Muledick", respectively), but every now and then, it gets good, particularly when someone says something creative without cussing. After all, its just kinda cheesedick to curse at a 1,000 decibel banshee yell in front of families and shit.
The cheers are really cool too, when someone deserves it, and the boos still make me chuckle when a golfer takes too many practice swings. Hell, Justin Leonard flipped off the gallery one year to much applause. Hook 'em, Justin!
Then, there's Cheddar's date Bryce, puking into her Salvatore Ferragamo bag and a little on her girl's Marc Jacob spool heels. They are the role players to their Superstar boyfriends, perfect game time teammates like Nash and Amare. Last year, I saw one particular glory girl clothesline herself on a fairway boundary rope. Just absolutely priceless moment. I cheers'ed my $7 Mich Ultra Amber to her in a salute to performance comedy.
So, anyway, this piece of the Valley is quite the unique gem. Its ours. No one has one just like it. Not even close. And you know what? We treat it like we fucking own it. For once Valley residents don't have to explain the cool-factor or the uniqueness of something here to those uninformed. It speaks for itself. And boy, does it.
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