LUDIC LOG

Hey, folks! I'm still chillaxin' in San Francisco, so we've got another award-winning guest columnist today. And who is it? It's none other than the fabulous Mr. Brent Bozman! No, not the stuck-up conservative cultural watchdog who looks like Walter Peck from Ghostbusters; that's Brent Bozell. This is Brent BOZMAN, who has a fine weblog here. Take it away, Brent!

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purveyor of hopes
smasher of dreams
deadly black assassin
shiny and luminous
rolling
down
conflict in motion
twelve pound
Brunswick

Wednesday, 6:36. League night. I like to get here just before the league bowlers show up, bowl a couple of frames, drink a few Pabst Blue Ribbons and whiskey sours in the cocktail lounge, and get the hell out of there.

Those league fuckers are the worst. Balding, fat suburban fathers desperate for one last burst of competitive adrenaline before their prostates finally give out. Angry truck-driving lesbians. Weedy little middle management types of no consequence whatsoever. Airhead secretaries who think that rolling a 116 and drinking a Coors Light constitutes a wild night out on the town.

None of those bastards appreciate the beauty and subtlety of this game. The tension of the expectant pins, naked and exposed at the end of the alley. The pure brute force of the rolling ball speeding down the alleyway. The conflict between man and the cold realities of physics as he attempts to master his surroundings. Bowling is a microcosm of the human struggle, lacquered in a white trash veneer.

I was just about to finish a 7-9 split on the ninth frame when one of those pricks walks up to the next lane and starts talking to me. Real clean-cut type, uses all of the Dale Carnegie methods, probably going to try to sell me life insurance within 20 minutes of introducing himself. He's wearing a fucking bowling shirt with his name embroidered on it and the sponsor's name on back: D&L OFFICE SUPPLIES. And his name is Chip. An adult man who willingly refers to himself as Chip.

After a couple of minutes of listening to Chip, I decided that I'd have to leave for the snack bar before he started talking about his personal relationship with Jesus Christ and showing me pictures of his family's vacation to the Corn Palace. I walked up to Peggy, the counterwoman. You know the type -- still wearing a bouffant way past its expiration date, voice made masculine by years of smoking, slowly being brought down by years of gravity.

"What'll it be, Henry?"

"PBR me."

"Just like the commercial, huh?"

"Yeah, I don't come up with my own material."

"How'd you do tonight?"

"Eh, only broke 200 once. The fates weren't on my side, and I keep pulling my release to the left."

We made a few more minutes of awkward small talk like that as I downed several beers. My evening was done. I'd go back to my apartment and pass out while watching footage of the 1975 Firestone Pro-Am Open.

As I was leaving the Bowl-a-Rama, I saw out of the corner of my eye one solitary bowler finishing his frame. The scorecard reflected by the overhead projector showed his score: 238. He was a grizzled, taciturn veteran of the lanes. He wasn't there to schmooze with his colleagues or fuck some woman, he just wanted to do something as well as it could be done. He stepped up to the line, pulled the ball back, and released - perfect aim, solid followthrough. It was a strike. Here was a man to be respected. Internally, I applauded.

Then I threw up into the automatic ball washer.