It’s not Cosmic Pizza that I mourn so much as the miniature golf course that was behind it. I come from the land of giant miniature golf courses, a land where miniature golf is a sport unto itself, a land known as Southern California, and growing up (me, not California), we had our choice of labyrinth-like courses to choose from. These were not courses to be trifled with. There was always a profusion of greenery, and winding paths, and tricky holes. I thought then that this was normal, that everyone had access to such wonders, and it was only when I left home at the age of 18 that I discovered such was not the case.
In Louisiana, one of my first away locations, there was a miniature golf course, which was called putt-putt instead of miniature golf, and it consisted of a few holes on a flat course with green felt and a few pieces of crockery scattered about. I felt immensely sad when faced with this poor imitation. My experiences elsewhere were no better.
When charming husband and I moved to our new location just over two years ago there was a miniature golf course attached to Cosmic Pizza, just a few blocks away from our new house. It didn’t meet the standards of the miniature golf courses of my youth, but it was something, after all, which is certainly better than nothing, and while small, it had a few little hills to break the monotony. We only saw it from the street while driving past to our new house on the day we moved in, but I thought to myself, “Self, now there’s a place I need to visit.”
Two days later Cosmic Pizza and its miniature golf course were closed.
Every time we drove by it was a sad reminder of the decline of our society and the inevitable collapse of civilization as we know it. Or maybe it was just another business out of business. One or the other, you choose.
Eventually Cosmic Pizza, which was not shaped anything like a normal building but instead had a large circular front, was vandalized. Plywood went up to cover broken windows. Pieces of it started disappearing. The miniature golf course sat forlornly behind it, also losing pieces of itself.
And then the chain link fence went up.
And then the golf course, such as it was, was dismantled.
And then Cosmic Pizza itself.
And now there’s a new building going up in its place. It looks like a rectangle. And I see no sign of a miniature golf course.
And this is a good thing, right? Because we certainly don’t have enough rectangular buildings without miniature golf courses around, do we? Can we ever have enough of those?
Sigh.
And so I mourn for the course I never got to play on, if by mourn we mean I say, “Well, shoot,” then go on about my life.
I’d like to be all torn up about Cosmic Golf (typing “Cosmic Pizza and its miniature golf course” became too much work, so we’ll just go with Cosmic Golf) but there’s really not enough time in the day to be overly upset about these things. I mean, look at yesterday, for example. I had to get up. That in itself is sometimes a major accomplishment.
Then I had to let the dogs out, and then feed them. This consumed a good 5% of the energy I’d had when I woke up, so I was going with only 95% by then. Then came whatever comes next, and then I did a pretty good of complaining about how hard writing is when I’m trying to write, which is only when I’m working on one of the books, not when writing about Cosmic Golf or whatever the blog du jour is. That’s easy.
By the end of the day I had to have a nap. Can you imagine the kind of energy that takes?
As a reward for working so hard, charming husband took me out to dinner, though not, obviously, at Cosmic Golf. Instead we went to a popular chain restaurant that has the best fried green beans. The wait was long, but we were rewarded with a large fairly quiet (when considering the rest of the place) booth.
So given my daily schedule, mourning Cosmic Golf can’t take too much of my time. It’s sad, but it’s not as if it were a world class miniature golf course, is it? That would call for some extra mourning, just like dead celebrities call for more mourning than, say, a close friend, or the guy down the street. I’m just sayin’.
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