I turn 30 tomorrow.
I had planned on sky-diving, a Harley (or at least a motorcycle of some sorts), another tattoo, a ’68 Mustang, or maybe some big black boots and a guitar.
I was going to do something BIG because I had planned on freaking out.
I was dreading this birthday, not telling anyone about it, hiding from it, lying about it, telling it to leave me the fuck alone and not returning it’s calls.
I think I’ve been dreading it because I spent too much time thinking about where I thought I would be at 30, as opposed to where I’m actually AT, at 30. It was bothering the hell out of me. It wasn’t the number 30, or the idea of no longer being in my 20’s, it was the internal comparison that I was doing between what I felt I should have accomplished by now as opposed to what I have done so far.
Then, I learned that none of that shit matters.
I remembered something so integral to aging that I was ashamed and astounded that I had missed it.
Get this?
On your Birthday?
People give you stuff.
Any day where people give you stuff is awesome beyond all awesomeness.
Especially when that stuff is beer. Or cake. Or beer. Or sex. Or beer.
I fucking love that stuff.
The Mom has this crazy friend, MickeyBob, who organized a bowling event, white-trash style Saturday night. It had been almost a year since I’d been bowling, and probably right around a week or so since I’d been white-trash. There were disco balls, lights, glowing pins and shoelaces, and we even got to pick our own white-trash names. It promised to be a much good time for “Bud” and “Sissy.”
It’s not that I don’t take bowling seriously though, it’s just that, well? I don’t think anyone should take bowling seriously.
Honestly, how hard is it to roll that goddam ball down the lane and hit them damn pins? Anybody can do that.
I figure that since rolling the ball and hitting the pins is so easy, the bowling styles should be affected by whomever bowls first, a la P.I.G.
I started it off with a sidearm slinger that sent that 7-pound pink-swirl wonder bouncing numerous times down the alley, flattening around 2 pins.
No one was really playing my way, though.
Cheaters. The nerve of them, rolling the ball normally. Shit, they were even using balls that had finger holes that fit their fingers.
Next frame was almost the trickiest, but the best if it works. Behind the back, through the legs, screaming a Celtic War Cry (“YAR”). Anyone can do it, but it’s not easy. A jogging start, plant both feet to a sliding stop, then swing the ball in an outward arc from in front of you all the way around until your arm hits your ass. Um, release the ball at this point. I probably didn’t have to tell you that. Sorry.
After that, I hurt a little and needed to catch back up to all the shameless cheaters, so I went for the 2-year old, granny-style, both hand-rolly jobber. As hard as I freaking could. It looked almost like an old school Highland Caber-toss, but with a ball and really stupid looking. I forgot to scream, but I hit lots of pins and was back in the game.
Next frame I thought I’d grab the heaviest ball I could find, hold it to my chest, then fling myself down the alley, facefirst, shoving the ball ahead of me into the pins. For the record, those alleys are waxed to a high sheen, very slick, and designed for the ball ONLY. Not my best idea. Especially when I got up and discovered that everything on the front side of my body hurt. Knees, hips, chest, face, arms and my still-sore-bitten cash-and-prizes all told me, emphatically, not to try that again.
A side-arm, a granny, and a baseball-style overhand (typically get asked to leave after those) kept me in the game until I could finally instigate the one rule I knew they ALL would follow: 7th Frame – Off Handed. Righties go Lefty, Lefties go Righty. Not difficult, but at least they’re not just rolling boringly down the lane, same old same old anymore. I picked up a spare, and apparently that’s good. I think the Girl did too, she’s a helluva bowler. For a cheater.
Then, because I’m concerned with the youth of America, I attempted to teach my 7-year old little brother (The Mom’s partner’s boy) how to bowl Fred Flintstone style. Imagine my heartbreak when he had not only never seen ol’ Freddy bowl, but had never heard of that cartoon at all. No matter, that hardly takes away from the sheer entertainment value of this style, not to mention it’s high degree of difficulty. HUGE wind-up, ball poised at the apex, then tippy-tippy-tippy toes all the way up to the top of the alley, then follow through and drop the ball as lightly as possible into the lane. If it hits the pins at all, it shouldn’t knock too many of them over, or you lose. I hit one pin in two tries.
THAT’S some talent.
Little Brother wasn’t near as impressed with Fred Flintstone as he was with? “The Sumo.”
I’ve seen ESPN2 at 2 in the morning and they occasionally show Sumo Wrestling.
That shit is classic.
The ceremony of it all is such an incredible work-up for what really amounts to two sea-mammalian-like men running into each other, tummies first, and trying to knock each other down.
For this shot, I pretty much emulate the first part of the ceremony, and then I pretend the pins are the other wrestler.
Feet wide apart, facing out, then squat, with arms out, elbows up and hands on your thighs (either hand can hold the ball? bowling ball). Starting about 10 feet from the lane, take stiff, powerful, booming steps, alternating slaps to the thighs. By the time you square off against your opponent, put on your toughest, fattest face, raise the ball, in both hands, high above your head, swing back through your legs as far as possible and HEAVE. You may get some air underneath it and it may possibly bounce heavily a few times (will also probably be asked to leave after this one), but it’s a classic.
Little Brother still doesn’t quite have the style down yet, but he’ll get to work on it again when his li’l after school group goes bowling in a couple weeks.
The other kids may simply think that he’s got a load in his pants during his approach (still a little stiff) but, when his toothless li’l mouth hollers out, “SUMO,” while heaving the ball down the lane, the cool kids will figure it out.
That kid’s gonna be the coolest bowler at his Catholic School.
Wait’ll I show him all the great things you can do with the “ball return” when your tall enough to straddle it.
I’m an awesome big brother. I know this.
Went golfing for Labor Day. For my birthday. For the Mom’s birthday (again).
And she kicked my ass.
AGAIN.
It was a good time, it always is because she buys the beer but, since I bought new clubs, I can’t throw them at trees anymore, and my aggression outlets are limited. I just get more and more pissed and hit worse and worse until the Mom finally shanks a couple on purpose just to shut me up. Brutal.
I was so frustrated when I left that I stopped, on a whim, at the driving range by our house. I didn’t have any cash, so I was honestly hoping to just go up to a tee, stand up there acting nonchalant until the attendant wasn’t watching, and then run out and grab the balls that only made it four feet. Even if I only got 5 or 6, I could still redeem myself with my driver. The attendant grabbed me before I got up there, though, and told me that I had to have a bucket of balls to hit before I went up there. I told him I didn’t have enough money unless I raided the ashtray of the truck. I turned to go home and he told me that if I picked up all the empty baskets, he’d give me a large bucket for free.
Cool.
I hit okay. Then I got better. Then I got a little better. Then, after chatting some more with the attendant, he gave me another large basket for my birthday.
Then, I kicked some ass. Every club, every shot, went straight and far. I wept openly and almost called the Mom to get her back out on the course. I was sure I’d show her now.
It was getting late, though.
The sun set on the last day of my twenties as I bounced a shot from my Big Bertha Warbird into the 300 yard marker on the driving range. Not too fucking bad.
I’m not afraid to turn 30.
Especially if people keep giving me stuff tomorrow.
This shit rocks.