Bowlarama

It was not the best day in the Glas household. Family turmoil left a planned road trip untraveled. The home team hashed things out between volleys of uncomfortable phone conversation. Things will be fine eventually, time tends to do that. Suffice it to say, drinking was a necessity this evening, the only questions that remained were what and where.

The kids being sequestered during the melee, it was decided that the drinking would have to include something fun for them as well. Though Chucky Cheese serves beer and wine (both from a tap sticking out of the wall) I had long ago vowed to never again enter that establishment. Where else could a kid be a kid and a parent be drunk? Live music somewhere? Skipper’s offered gospel at $25 a head. State fair? Kinda far and sure to be filled to capacity with Hillsborough County’s finest. A movie? No these kids needed to burn some energy. Maybe the drive-in, but we’d have to prematurely introduce the kiddies to Jason Vorhees and his exploits at Camp Crystal Lake. How about, I don’t know…bowling? Wait yeah bowling! Physical activity for the kids, beer for me, food, and beer for me. A few phone calls later we were bound for Tampa Lanes.

Our local bowling alley is about 5 miles north of our neighborhood at the apex of Dale Mabry and US 41. Technically it should be called Lutz Lanes as it is located within that particular town’s city limits. It sits immediately adjacent to the Paradise Lakes nudist resort amongst the fast food joints and strip malls that dominate that part of town. Although I saw none in uniform, I couldn’t help wondering if we were bowling along side a bunch nudies. By no means do I give a shit if someone wants to be a nudist, I just don’t particularly want to watch them bowl. The only balls I was interested in watching bounce were those my kids chunked down the lane.

Shoes rented, lane assigned, food and drink ordered and we were ready to go. They put us on lane 22, down near the end where they stick people with kids to keep them from distracting the “serious” bowlers. The beer, served in a pitcher, was weak and American. The food was fried. It was the first thing in my stomach all day aside from about six cups of coffee (I am chewing a handful of Tums as I write this). The blue collar crowd was generally friendly and having a good time. We were situated between a family with kids of their own (one of which barfed 3 feet behind where we were sitting) and some teens that appeared to be on a double date. Apparently Tampa Lanes is also the preferred Saturday night hangout for the local junior high crowd. I’m pretty sure had I been alone, my jeans washed in acid and my neck washed in Drakkar, I would have landed a date for the spring formal.

The bowling was fun for the whole family. I used a green 15-pounder off the rack. As the beer poured, I imagined scenes from one of my all time favorite movies The Big Lebowski. After one of my many strikes (one), I looked back at my family and thought “Don’t fuck wit da Gessus, mang”. The wife and kids enjoyed themselves even though I wiped the floor with them (gutter bumpers up). By the end of the game, with the last pitcher drained, I had hatched a plan to steal my rented bowling shoes. I’ve always wanted a pair and the beer had emboldened my resolve. Pam and the kids would leave through the front door with the shoes I had worn into the place. They would then drive around to the side and I would bolt through the door into the waiting getaway minivan. The plan was perfect. I wish nothing more than to include a pic of the shoes along with this post. In the end however, less uninhibited (more inhibited?) minds prevailed and the caper was scrapped. Maybe next time.

Now I sit on the couch with my laptop, my belly full of beer and fried cheese, my mind full of images of my smiling kids. A day that started out a turd ended up pretty good. Now where’d I leave those Tums?