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The Putt-Putt Chronicles
Franz Lidz
September 19, 1994
Wherein the author and two other duffers max out on minigolf
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September 19, 1994

The Putt-putt Chronicles

Wherein the author and two other duffers max out on minigolf

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13. Spyglass Adventure , 8:00 p.m.
While Moskowitz compares our scores on three-tiered mesa holes with rock barriers to two-humped doglegs with chutes in the middle, the cashier leads Diliberto and me on a tour of exploding powder kegs, gangplanks and smoking cannons. Pirateshy Moskowitz is heartened to learn that this joint used to be called Moby Dick Golf. "Can I list it under nautical?" he asks.

14. Jungle Caverns , 8:52 p.m.

This bush course is thick with magnolias, hibiscus, ducks and mosquitoes. "We had chickens," says the manager, "but somebody killed them."

I ask him about the Ty-D-Bol-colored water that cascades down the granite and cement mountain, whooshes around the make-believe elephant and gurgles past the fairways.

It's a biodegradable dye, he tells me, "safe enough for fish to swim in." Then he asks guilelessly, "Wanna drink?"

Moskowitz says, "I wonder if that's what killed the chickens."

15. Treasure Island , 9:36 p.m.

Flushed from his second straight jungle triumph, Moskowitz is a little apprehensive about playing another pirate course. He hasn't won a pirate course outright in 13 hours. He's especially wary of hole number 17. Since Buccaneer Bay he has averaged 4.33 strokes on penultimate pirate holes. "I wonder how many jungle courses are left," he says, making a church roof of his fingers. "It could be all pirates, and I'll be in trouble."

His face turns ashen after his faded orange ball stops dead an inch from the opening hole. "It knows I maligned it," he says, just above a whisper.

"Who's it?" I ask.

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