It's All About the Balls

I bowled on a league last night for the first time in about five years. The first time since throwing away my ball and bag, announcing that I would never bowl again. About two thirds of the way into the first game I came to realize just why I had stopped. My arm seemed to have a mind of its own, I was tripping over my feet, and I couldn't get over the feeling that everybody in the bowling alley was watching me miss easy spares. If it weren't for the fact I had just spent two hundred dollars on a new ball, I would have thrown it all in again. But then one of my team mates bought me a beer and things started to smooth out a bit. The second game was more respectable and I had another beer. By the third game and the third beer, the old swagger came back. Not that I think that I'm a good bowler, but after three beers all the distractions and self doubt faded away. It all came back to me, how to bowl. Well, how I bowl. Alcohol is the secret. Not too much, not too little. It seems the sweet spot is one drink per game and I realize I should start that first drink before the first game starts. That is, if I don't want to embarrass myself. My mom and dad bowled into their seventies. I'm sixty seven. My goal is to bowl longer than Mom and Dad did. If ruining my liver is what it takes to do that, so be it.

Dishing With Mom

I like having people over for dinner. I like the drinks, the conversation, and the meal. Usually Mark makes a pretty good meal and I buy some decent liquor which will automatically mean conversation. Depending upon the amount of liquor consumed, that conversation can be interesting or it might veer off into something nutty. But all that aside, what has to be done no matter what, is the cleanup. If the company is good I leave the cleanup for later. If it has already gone off the deep end, I'll stay in the kitchen and do the job right away. What I do not like, is help in that job. Every time, well meaning guests will come into the kitchen and ask if there is anything they can do. The answer is always, "No, I'm fine. Thank you." Seriously, I do not want help cleaning up the kitchen. Too many times things get lost, put away forever in a place that I would never think of looking. I have a place for everything, and everything in our kitchen has a place. In addition to where things go, I have a specific order in which I load the dishwasher. I like the plates loaded just so, the glasses have to be in the same exact place every time, and I also have a system for where the flatware is placed. The forks, the knives, spoons, they all have to be in the correct pocket. So stupid, I know.

I never thought much about why I like everything placed exactly in the same place every time. I simply thought I was being conscientious by loading the dishwasher in a specific order, and putting the dirty dishes in the correct spot. But I now know that it is hereditary. Last week I brought Mom lunch and when I set the table, Mom was shocked to find that I used dining room silverware.

"Well, it was in the kitchen drawer with all the other forks and knives." I explained to her.

"No, that is not where those belong."

So I put the offending silverware away and pulled out Mom's crappy flatware. It made her happy. Later, after lunch, I cleared the table and rinsed the dishes out in the sink. Looking at all the dirty dishes, I opened up the dishwasher and told Mom that I would load them in there for her. Well, you would have thought I was going to stuff a puppy in there. It seems that Mom likes her dishwasher loaded up in a very particular way and I am not capable enough to do the job.

Chapter Two

Dennis hove in sight presently -- the very man, of all men, whose ridicule he had been dreading. Dennis' gait was a bit wobbly -- proof enough that his heart was light and his anticipations high. He was sipping a beer.

"Hi- yi ! You're up a stump, ain't you!"

No answer. Alan surveyed his last touch with the eye of an artist, then he gave his brush another gentle sweep and surveyed the result. Dennis ranged up alongside of him. Alan's mouth watered for the beer, but he stuck to his work. Dennis said:

"Hello, old chap, you got to work, hey?"

Alan wheeled suddenly and said:

"Why, it's you, Dennis! I warn't noticing."

"Say -- I'm going to the Granville Anvil, I am. Don't you wish you could? But of course you'd druther work -- wouldn't you? Course you would!"

Alan contemplated him a bit, and said:

"What do you call work?"

"Why, ain't that work?"

Alan resumed slapping stain on the fence, and answered carelessly:

"Well, maybe it is, and maybe it ain't. All I know, is, it suits me."

"Oh come now, you don't mean to let on that you like it?"

The brush continued to move.

"Like it? Well, I don't see why I oughtn't to like it. Does a man get a chance to paint stain on a fence every day?"

That put the thing in a new light. Dennis stopped sipping his beer. Alan swept his brush daintily back and forth -- stepped back to note the effect -- added a touch here and there -- criticised the effect again -- Dennis watching every move and getting more and more interested, more and more absorbed. Presently he said:

"Say, Alan, let me slap a little stain on that fence."

Alan considered, was about to consent; but he altered his mind:

"No -- no -- I reckon it wouldn't hardly do, Dennis. You see, Mark is awful particular about this fence -- he would have a shit fit. Yes, he's awful particular about this fence; it's got to be done very careful; I reckon there ain't one man in a thousand, maybe two thousand, that can do it the way it's got to be done."

"No -- is that so? Oh come, now -- lemme just try. Only just a little -- I'd let you , if you was me, Alan."

"Dennis, I'd like to, honest injun; but Mark -- well, Croatian Steve wanted to do it, but Mark wouldn't let him; Frank the plumber wanted to do it, and he wouldn't let Frank. Now don't you see how I'm fixed? If you was to tackle this fence and anything was to happen to it -- "

"Oh, shucks, I'll be just as careful. Now lemme try. Say -- I'll give you what's left of my beer."

"Well, here -- No, Dennis, now don't. I'm afeard -- "

"I'll give you the whole bottle of beer!"

"Make it that beer and the one you have in your back pocket."

Alan gave up the brush with reluctance in his face, but alacrity in his heart. And while Dennis worked and sweated in the sun, the retired artist lay back in the lawn chair in the shade close by, dangled his legs, drank his beers, and planned the slaughter of more innocents....      

"ALAN!!!"

...."Huh, what?"

"Wake up Alan."

"Oh, Mark. Sorry, I kind of dozed off there."

"Get back to staining that fence. It's got to be done before winter, and I know you. If I don't keep on you, it'll never get done.'

"Damn, I just had the strangest dream. You were in it, and Dennis was in it, But it couldn't have been just a dream, could it?"

Apologies, to Sam Clemens

Short Pants

Monday morning I woke up and felt a bit of a chill in the room. It was six in the morning and time for the dogs to go outside. So I slipped on my shorts and threw on a sweat shirt, then led Chandler and Scout out to the backyard. Holy crap, it was cold. I could see my breath in the air. This was it. Summer, in my mind, was over. The autumn weather was here. Sure, most of the trees in the neighborhood still have green leaves on them, but being able to see my breath was the truth. No more shorts, no more walking the dogs with just a tee shirt on in the evening. Goodbye summer, I enjoyed you immensely. Now I shall enjoy autumn.

First thing, I pulled the air conditioner out of the living room window and stored it out on the back porch. I cut down some of the failing garden, turned the soil over, and then mulched it. I pulled out all my long pants, and my cool weather shirts. The lawn chairs have been put away in the garage and I've Googled how to prepare the grape vine I planted last spring for the coming winter. Down in the basement I oiled the pump motor on the hot water heating system and turned on the boiler. Yes, I have been very busy with my change of season chores. There are really only a few things I'll miss until next summer. One would be sitting out in the back yard with a beer while the dogs chase invisible bugs, and another would be my short pants. So easy to put on and take off.

Ball Sack

Thirty six years ago, my new boyfriend talked me into joining his bowling league. So I got me a bowling ball and some shoes and I became a bowler. I was horrible at it and I always felt that I was responsible when our team lost. I probably was, considering the number of times my ball ended up in the gutter. After a while the newness of the boyfriend wore off and we were more like an old married couple. A little more time passed and then we became exes. But I did continue bowling, only not with him. I joined a lesbian bowling league. I'm pretty sure that some of the other bowlers did not appreciate our team of all men being involved. Especially when we came in second place. I still remember accepting that lovely trophy with the lady bowler on it.

When I moved to Florida I naturally joined the gay bowling league. That is the easiest way to meet new people when you move. Oh sure, I could have joined a church to meet people, but they don't drink or curse. After many years of bowling in Florida, I decided to quit. Not because I wanted to, but because I looked around and I was now the oldest guy on the league. Also my team dumped me... assholes.

A few weeks ago I went up to the bowling alley here in Chicago, on the night that the gays bowl. A few people I know bowl on that league, and I suddenly got the urge to bowl again. Unfortunately I could not find my bowling ball bag with the ball and shoes in it that I had in Florida. That was a very good bowling ball, and I was really sorry that it got lost in the move. So I went to the pro shop here and bought another ball along with a pair of shoes and a bag. While I was waiting for the guy to drill my ball, I called my friend Dennis.

"Where are you?"

"I'm at the bowling pro shop buying a new ball and shoes. I can't find my old ball anywhere. I'm pretty sure the movers stole it, those thieves."

"Alan, you just aren't right in the head."

"Huh, what do you mean?"

"I was with you when the movers were there. You picked up your bowling bag, with the ball and shoes inside, and you threw it in the garbage. You told me that you would never bowl again."

It was a long day and I must have been very, very tired.