beau sturm

Bowling Alley

"Na dude", he replies to a question posed that wasn't even heard.

"Man, I'm tellin' you, Television is the most underrated band ever".

Usually these nonsensical arguments are what he lives for but his hangover coupled with the Latino girl that apparently isn't wearing any underwear (judging from the brown ass cheeks flirting through the top of her jeans) the next lane over has numbed his brain activity.

Not even knowing that he was responding, he blurted, "How 'bout the Kinks, Jane's Addiction or T Rex?"

"Dork."

Drifting off again into his own mental wonderland, he began to imagine what it might be to not think about everything at once all of the time. There must be people somewhere who have singularly pure thoughts, unobstructed by the thousands of others that corrupt the good one so violently it might as well not have even been conceived of in the fist place. The fact that he is bowling, involuntarily carrying on this pseudo-intellectual pop rock argument, staring like a stalker at the pantiless bowler, and digressing into this narcissistic tangent supports his one-man silent study.

"Dude, you're up!"

"Sorry." He twists a hangnail on his left index finger until it bleeds.

He picks up the first round thing that he sees and rolls it down one of many lanes hoping to avoid destroying the neatly configured white army at all costs. He succeeds. The ball doesn't touch ground for ten feet only to crash into the left gutter, and make a feeble attempt to jump out onto the next lane.

"I need a beer; you?"

"How can you say that the Kinks are underrated, next thing you know you'll be crying for the Clash to get more respect; and you have one more ball to roll."

"You roll it. I think I'll get us a shot too."

Walking across the endless tunnel-like isle of paisley and neon gave him the impression of a nuclear submarine turned Vegas casino. He chuckled to himself at the thought of wheeling Larry Flint and his entourage of whores onto the dock for the maiden voyage of the underwater sin-machine.

To the right, a plastic hand with an erect middle finger encased in a clear glass bowling ball in the "Pro Shop" quickly caught his eye. He figured that only a bowler on the Pro Tour with a lifetime average of 299 could wield such a tool. Even then, the bowler brave enough to possess such a sphere would have to be the most egotistical asshole in the history of the sport.

What would this dickhead's bowling shoes look like?

Then the revelation: he hated bowling.

"Fuck it", he mumbled.

He was only half way down the corridor and dreaded the thought of the long walk back to his lane. He notices the girl and her friends paying at the front desk.

"Where's the drinks?"

"I don't know."