I had this idea to regularly post something not bowling related. Let's face it: regularly writing about bowling without being a pro on tour or posting one's league scores (which I vow never to do, unless there is a three digit number starting with an "8" or "9" involved) is tough. I'd guess it's the same as trying to write Christian rock songs - there's only so many ways to go before you start repeating. So, in homage to one of my favorite cheesy promotions from the glory days of AOR (that's album-oriented rock, for those younger than thirty) radio, I'm going to do a regular Tuesday posting - "Double Shot Tuesday" - consisting of two examples of something, and by "something" I mean "mostly music". And yes, I am aware that today is Wednesday. Sometimes inspiration and the calender don't jibe.

(By the way, thanks again to the entity that came up with YouTube. Don't know how I lived without you.)

This first one is Adrian Belew of King Crimson doing a acoustic interpretation of their song, "Three of a Perfect Pair". My boss at Regular Job sent me a link to this, along with a note saying he had never really contemplated how good a player Adrian is. I wrote back that his nerdy-dad way of moving and facial expressions took away from his playing. But this is just simple (if you can call the guitar part that) and good, especially since the song with the whole band involved is straight from the mind of a robot. The acoustic treatment, and the audience response to it, really humanizes it.

One more thing - I was mightily impressed by the crowd clapping along in 7/8 towards the end. I bet they listen to so much odd-time music that a song like "Jack & Diane" would utterly confuse them, if not put them to sleep outright. Gotta love diehard prog-rockers.

On a totally unrelated musical topic, I went on a Paul Rodgers bender a few weeks ago and found a bunch of clips of his first band, Free. I was and am a big Bad Company fan (though I'd prefer to forget The Firm ever existed, and don't even bring up his current alliance with the Queen reunion), but I hadn't paid much attention to that band, save for the ubiquitous "All Right Now". I was a fool. Four guys who can play, heavy and grooving while never overplaying, and none of them over twenty-one at the time of this recording. This one, "I'll Be Creeping", is my favorite of the bunch. Blues-based rock music is like Latin and Greek - the basis of so much that came after, yet it's a dead language now. Cest la vie.

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.