The last two weeks seemed two months long. My head feels like there is a lead weight in it. Between the coaching classes, the new pro shop and the end of the bowling season, my capacity to do things like think and sleep are seriously compromised. My vacation to Reno in two weeks is sorely needed. Wait, I'm going to Reno to bowl. Damn. (Ever consider the blasphemy that sometimes you can bowl too much? Right, me neither. But you can think about bowling too much , and right now in my brain the sweep is down and the approaches are sticky.)
Seriously, is there anyone out there going to Nationals the 20-21st of the month? I need compatriots as the team I'm going with are not what you'd call party monsters, save for one who should never touch alcohol again and is fairly insufferable when in the grip. I will be doing my best to get my own fun, but it would be cool to meet some new folks who don't turn into werewolves (or simply turn in) after the third drink. If you're out there, let's hang.
Some thoughts from the weekends:
- After witnessing some of the World Ranking Masters on Thursday, I can't decide whether bowling two-handed is the best thing I've ever seen or a sign of the apocolypse. What Jason Belamonte and Osku Palermaa can do with a ball and the pin carry that results is frightening. And awesome.
- Didn't go talk to Diandra. Totally pussed out on that one. In my defense, it was a competition, not a personal appearance, and I couldn't shake the thought that spontaneosly introducing myself and starting a meaningless conversaion about this space would somehow interrupt her competitive flow. I'd like to think that her victory was a validation of my hypothesis.
- Bronze level coaching class was cool, although there was no way I was going to fail. Once again, Kegel Training Center made my job easy. The technical portion of the Bronze class (bowling ball construction and dynamics) I knew from Kegel's pro shop training class, and much of the actual coaching techniques taught I was familiar with from the lessons I took at Kegel. (Also, the final exam was all multiple chioce and true/false. If you want to test me, make me pull the answer out of my head and write it down, not let me deduce the right answer by pulling out all the obviously wrong ones.) What was cool was teaching volunteers on day three, followed by "before" and "after" video analysis of our students. That made it worthwhile - maybe not to the tune of $275, but worthwhile nonetheless.
- Ever walk into a bowling center and feel like you know everyone in the place, only they all have different names? That happened to me this weekend. It's like centers put out casting calls for acting positions: The Cocky Guy With The Mustache, The Serious Kid With Too Much Hair Gel, The Retiree Who Likes To Talk Alot, The Guy with Too Much Gear, etc. The highlight was the elderly black gentleman with the long ponytail of white hair whose name was "Lord". He was a nice guy who laughed easily, almost as easily as he used biblical analogies. His car was easy to spot as he had a vanity plate the read, "I AM LORD". Struck me as kind of boastful, but I'm not qualified to make that sort of judgement.
On to the tunes:
THE SACRED
Don't think Aretha needs an introduction. I first heard this song on the radio while on the way to see my dad. The station was fading in and out, but it came in clear just in time to catch the breakdown at the end. Just Bernard Purdie on the drums and........ROCK........STEADY........ROCK.......STEADY. It's the kind of thing that makes me want to grow my afro back.
THE SILLY
My favorite song to play on the center jukebox when a girl's birthday party is going on, just to see if the parents react. This is the type of song that rocks and makes me laugh at the same time. Entertaining and embarrassing, it is the quintessential guilty pleasure.
No Double Shot Tuesday entry this week - I was too busy chasing down paperwork and putting out the fires necessary to own one's own pro shop. Yes, my crazy schedule for the month of May, which includes Level I coaching class (last Sunday), paying a visit to the World Ranking Masters tournament at Kegel this weekend, and Nationals the last weekend, now includes figuring out the intracacies of owning a business. Oh, and it turns out that the only Bronze certification coaching class happening within a thousand miles of my house this whole year is this weekend. Taking it all too far as usual, I'll be doing that directly after the WWM visit on Thursday. I'm having serious doubts about my sanity and concerns about my long-term health.
in this light, I'm not going to have much time for the blog this week, although I'll try to get one in over the weekend to recap the international flavor of the WRM and the pressure cooker of learning how to coach.
I found myself in a random moment the other day pining for the slang words of my youth. It truly is a shame that slang has a shelf life and using them too long makes you sound like someone's grandfather. There are so many creative terms born out of our wonderfully flexible language that die ignoble deaths from misuse, just because they are no longer "cool" (except for the word "cool", of course). I will therefore recount my performance in the state tournament this past weekend utilizing some of my favorite superlatives of yore:
Doubles: Rad, A-OK, Choice.
Singles: Outta-sight, Top Drawer, Right On.
Team: Def, Fly, kinda Bogus.
There were also some snack bar crew on Sunday who could be considered "foxes", if for no other reason that they ID'd me for beer TWICE. Yes, I'm that easy.
Remember when Rod Stewart wasn't a joke? It's hard to do, given the fact that he's spent the last THIRTY FREAKIN' YEARS tarnishing his rep. From "Do You Think I'm Sexy" through "Young Turks", "Love Touch", every other song he did in the Eighties, to his lame attempts at the Great American Songbook today. This is The Faces, whom Rod joined after leaving the Jeff Beck Group, doing a version of The Temptations' "I'm Losing You". This is a band that never got its due. It probably didn't help that Rod's career overshadowed theirs (they were the backing band on his early solo records), or that they were always loaded when they played, leading to a spotty live performance reputation. Here, they are obviously drunk and obviously rocking.
The first record I ever had was a K-Tel product entitled Donny Osmond Superstar. I saw him with his brothers on a variety show and, according to my mom, I couldn't stop talking about him. (Note: I was no older than five at the time.) Apparently she took it upon herself to feed this monster and ordered the record off of the TV. A few months later I had my first record and my first music obsession. Damn, that looks embarrassing in print.
My boss found this time capsule a few months ago. Donny is playing bass and outsinging his brother on the choruses. I could try and encapsulate my feelings on the costuming, dancing, relentless smiling, the drum set with no drummer, etc., but I'll just let the clip speak for itself. Dy-No-Mite!!!
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.
A couple of female masterpieces this week. First up, "Rehab" by Amy Winehouse.
Close your eyes and tell me she sounds like a 23 year-old Jewish girl from the East End of London. It's like she's channeling someone else, but it never comes off like a cliche or an affectation with no Aguilera-esque histrionics. She also likes to get drunk and heckle Bono, and that's never a bad thing.
But forget about faux-retro, let's get REAL retro. Ella Fitzgerald singing "Summertime". I first saw this on an "American Masters" special on PBS. Floored me. Dead in my tracks. Tell me you don't get chills when she hits the second verse, and as she holds those effortless notes forever. Damn.
