I went to the dermatologist yesterday to finally get the growth under my left eye fully removed. It was found to be a carcinoma at the end of January, but I canceled the appointment so that I wouldn't have a big sewn-up gash on my face on the date I had scheduled the next day. (That would be the first woman mentioned in the "Disappearing Blog Post", for those keeping score.) I don't care what kind of "game" you have, you're not going to be at your best with this on your money-maker:

Then again, if I carried around a lighting rig and some Venetian blinds, I might be irresistible.

But enough with the appetizer. I had an awesome time subbing on the Tuesday league a few days ago, and relearned a few things. At the top of that list is that bowling is meant to be an enjoyable experience. Even when it seems like I'm bowling with both hands around my neck, I'm still engaging in an activity that makes me happy. If I truly love this game, I must embrace the the whole enchilada: the strikes, the spares, the taps, the flagged single pins, the splits, everything. It doesn't help anything to complain about the lane condition, or the team you're bowling against, or the fact that you brought the ABSOLUTELY wrong ball for the shot the center laid out. In fact, by doing so, you rob yourself of the opportunity to learn from the challenges before you. (Mind you, this is not an easy task for a guy who used to idolize John McEnroe. That guy understood that losing sucked worse than anything, and was the only person who acted like me when they were losing. On a side note, I used to be a complete pain in the ass.)

I ended up shooting around my average, had a REALLY good time, and learned some stuff about lane play. But it wouldn't have happened without the following:

ATTITUDE - The house I bowled in has a shaky lane oiler, and let's just say the shot can vary wildly from week to week. Last Tuesday was oily. I, of course, guessed wrong and brought two dry balls with me. I could have let this bug me, but instead I took at it a challenge and good practice for the tighter shot I will see at the state and national tournaments in the coming weeks. It took all of warmup and half the first game, but I found about an inch of lane and a ball speed that would allow me a few boards of recovery. I decided to pound a groove into that inch of lane, rather than get frustrated and mentally pack it in.

THE "OLD GUY" SECRET - Have you ever bowled against a older man or woman who always seems to crush you even though they have no hand, throw the ball 10mph, and aren't walking too well? I figured out the source of their power on Tuesday.

I was bowling against this 22 year-old kid who throws a smooth, powerful hook, the kind I will never get close to emulating. He also threw an 8-something the week before. I was strangely unfazed by this. I saw him sitting by himself the whole night, not talking to his teammates, his face tight with serious intent. I saw a guy who expected to roll great, would get rattled at the slightest mistake or bad break, and would be REALLY mad to lose to the laughing guy with tattoos who didn't seem to give a crap about his score. Then it hit me - THAT'S THE SECRET!

If you're lucky enough to bowl into old age, you are fully aware of your limits. You do your thing and let the chips fall where they may. You've won your share and lost your share, but you don't let the bad times affect the good times. You've seen enough young guns to know that 1) you aren't going to beat them at their own game, 2) they can be a victim of their own pride/aggressiveness/machismo/expectations, and 3) losing to an old person will drive them mad, especially if you 4) maintain an attitude of nonchalance-to-downright-giddiness. I had discovered the weapon of my elders, and commenced to unleash it upon my adversary with the help of...

BEER - just one or two, to relax the mind and lube up my talking bone. I figured that my gregariousness would be just enough of a distraction to the kid I was bowling to magnify both his competitive fire and his sensitivity to mistakes and taps. IN NO WAY did I talk trash, become obnoxious, or overtly mess with him. I did not even speak to him until after the league was over. I just wanted to relax, take it frame by frame, make small talk with friends, and never look like I was at all concerned with the outcome. It's the kind of thing that would irritate me most about losing to an older guy. "He's beating me, and he doesn't even care!!!!"

In the end, I took two of four points, got more solid practice on a tight lane condition, didn't stink out the joint, got a beer buzz, and made a younger man irritable. And for the record, I introduced myself directly after the last ball was thrown and complimented him on his form. You know, just to rub it in.

I wish I could say that, in the few weeks since I last posted, amazingly cool and interesting things have happened in my life. You know, stuff worth writing about. This is not the case, unless you consider a few paragraphs about working and sleeping riveting literature. Oh, wait! I did get a text message a few weeks ago that began with the sentence, "I wish you were in my bed." From a girl. I suppose you can't say that was mundane.

So, since I have nothing fresh, I'm digging into the archives and fishing out the story of my first 300, which I bowled almost exactly a year ago (4/11/06). But with me, there's always context and back story to consider.

When I started watching in the early 80's, professional wrestling was much more provincial than the juggernaut the WWE is today. Each territory had its own promoters and its own stable of wrestlers. I spent most of my childhood in South Florida where Championship Wrestling from Florida (or CWF) was king. They were packed with superstars, and their weekly Saturday afternoon television broadcast was hosted by the immortal Gordon Solie. I was a rabid Dusty Rhodes admirer, and as such, was predisposed to hate any and all of his rivals. During the time I most actively watched, Dusty's most heated feud was with a masked wrestler named The Assassin. The Assassin also had two cohorts, cryptically named Assassin #2 and Assassin #3, respectively. At any time one or all of them would interfere with Dusty's matches, many times leaving his face "a crimson mask".

I hated the Assassins so much that I drew a replica mask on a pillowcase; when Saturday rolled around I would slide the "mask" over a sofa cushion and proceed to reenact a match, inevitably ending in me "unmasking" the faux Assassin in dramatic fashion. My sister thought I was insane. And yes, I was single during this time of my life. I was also eleven, so put a sock in it.

Fast forward almost a quarter-century. I start bowling on this league, and there is this one guy I instantly dislike. He's big, bald, with wire-rimmed glasses and a handlebar mustache. The kind of guy who looks surly even when he's in a great mood, a guy you could never stare down. My gut told me he was bad news. (The name of his team was the BAMF's, for Bad-Ass Motherfuckers, for what that's worth.) I always seemed to bowl well against him, however.

After two seasons of bowling against him, one league night I find out he was Assassin #2. I freaked out. How small is the world that I guy I hated as a masked pro wrestler in fifth grade is now a regular bowling opponent? I went downtown in an attempt to find anyone in my age bracket who was a wrestling fan. "Dude, do you remember...?" came out of my mouth a lot that night.

Fast forward again to last year. By this point, Mike (Assassin #2's real name) and I had become fairly friendly. I told him all about hating his guts as a kid, which he found very amusing. He told me various bits of information about wrestling back then along with who was who underneath the masks. (The most exiting and rare of all match endings was when someone managed to remove the mask from a wrestler, revealing him to be some OTHER wrestler making a image change. I still remember Mr. Uganda's unmasking, revealing a pissed-off Bugsy McGraw, like it was yesterday.) My team is rolling against the BAMF's and I'm put up against the Assassin, as usual.

After a few questionable strikes in frames two, three and five, I settle into a groove. Strikes ten and eleven were quality. The last ball was pushed slightly but made it back enough for a light-pocket closer. The walk off the approach seemed to take twenty minutes, with the handshakes and whatnot.

At this point, I can't feel my feet and our team's table is filling up with free drinks. By the middle of the third game I have given up all pretense of bowling well, on account of my 300 and being fairly-well sloshed. I get up, throw a rather indifferent second ball in the seventh frame and walk off the approach towards our table. Next thing I know, I am upside-down. My feet are pointed at the ceiling tiles and my face is pointed at the carpet because the Assassin has got me in the I-am-about-to-body-slam-you-into-the-table position. It was then that I knew this was not just a great day, it had entered the circle of Best Days of My Life, somewhere between losing my virginity and the time I touched Angus Young of AC/DC with my bare hand. This demanded another trip downtown where a friend of mine took the following picture:

I'm throwing up the "three" sign, signifying the 300 game. I know, drunk AND clever.

Since then, Assassin #2 and I have become downright chummy, due to my work in the pro shop and the fact that he's a genuinely nice guy. There is also an outside chance that the BAMF's might have an opening on their summer league team. You think I'm going to tell a 6'2", 280lb dude with scars all over his forehead no? I'm not stupid. I just hope he's not too mad when turn on him six weeks with a folding chair shot to the head, or perhaps a flying suplex from atop the snack bar counter....

Imagine my surprise yesterday when I opened my Bowlspace account to find a an email from none other than Diandra Asbaty herself, apologizing for the plethora of vertigo-inducing banner ads for her clothing company. (Go here for the original blog post, or just scroll down my homepage a tad.) My first reaction was "God, I am such an asshole." Yes, the ads are annoying, but that isn't Diandra's fault. Ads are SUPPOSED to be annoying by the very nature of their repetition. And the printed word does not transmit the vocal inflections and body language necessary to deduce that I'm not really angry - more like I'm theatrically exaggerating a minor annoyance for the purposes of entertainment. For that I have apologized privately and do so here in the public domain.

Of course, my second thought was, "Holy shit, I just got an email from Diandra Freaking Asbaty!" I haven't been this excited since Sean Rash's girlfriend Sara commented on a blog post concerning Sean's on-the-lanes demeanor. I don't want to sound all giddy and star-struck, but honestly, I'm not far from it either. And it revives my hope that all this is leading to the blessed day when I receive correspondence from Clara Guerrero telling me to cease and desist.     

My third thought was "Dammit, anybody can find this and I actually have to think about the ramifications of making my thoughts public." Seems obvious when I type it out, but it didn't really hit me until Ms. Asbaty's email. It's fun to fly off the handle, as long as it's entertaining. That is admittedly a fine line, even in face-to-face conversation. I'm pretty good at it live, but in print I am but an amateur. Maybe after another thousand posts. We'll see.

My final thought is thus: fill out all the dumb bowling surveys you want, post your league scores until the end of time. They'll never get you emails from hot chicks who bowl better than you. Ever. Speaking of this, check out how good Diandra looks in a bikini top, about 0:19 in. (Following closely is Ms. Guerrero at 0:21. And you wonder why I'm obsessed. She brings out the knuckle-dragger in me.) Mr. Asbaty is quite the fortunate man. Lucky bastard.