Postcards to A Lost Weekend I. 05.13.03

Happy birthday, Eben! You must be loved because your friends were bouncy like pogo sticks on your stoop. What more can a young man ask for? Obviously—bowling and Rhinegold’s Ale.

And this place deep in Brooklyn did not disappoint. Worth the price of admission, this alley was defended by serious bowling league cats, adorned with trophies, ceilinged with the removable pockboard tile. It’s so cool, I just lost control and used a word that don’t exist at all (ceilinged).

Arroz is very serious about his bowling. I can’t wait for his paunchy days where he and I will both belong to a league with Eben, who by that time will no doubt be suave and in the midst of a midlife crisis. We all know what that means—rides in the Ferrari! Homely strippers!

I digress. Nice to meet you, Megan and Adam; good to bowl with you Arroz, Eben, Nascar Anna, and Silver. Especially Silver, because I don’t know anyone else who can lose his balance on a bowl so badly that he falls back, stumbles against the ball return, then squares up only to collapse onto his side. Truly skilled, my friend, truly skilled.

But again, great to be out on the yuppie/ hipster/ imported-Brooklynite-free sections of Brooklyn. Our friends notwithstanding… but next time, it won’t be your birthday, Eben, and I won’t take it so easy on you. I will continue to sing Sugar Ray’s “When It’s Over.” Plus, ass-whuppin’ will commence.

Yours With a Tough-Sounding Snarl.