june 8 2000
since fiona is officially departing for the summer to go be a "writer," the usual suspects had dinner and went bowling last night as a final kiss-off. her idea.
dinner conversation consisted of:
fiona: you wrote about your penis?
me: uh. yeah. but not explicitly! it was tasteful!
steve: he's right. it wasn't explicit.
fiona: what could be tasteful about writing about your penis?
me: uh.
pj: smirk smirk.
steve: women have really told you you have an attractive penis?
pj: smirk.
me: uh. yeah.
fiona: jesus christ. i can't believe you wrote about your penis
me: well...
pj: i can't wait to see who crawls out of the woodwork for this one, man.
so, bowling in manhattan is kind of what you'd expect. well, no, it's exactly what you'd expect. it's fluorescent pins and cosmopolitans and automatic scorekeeping monitors featuring a seemingly inexhaustible supply of poorly-designed animations that ostensibly depict well-known metaphors of triumph and despair but feature instead of human players a bowling ball and a pin. if you get a gutter ball, for instance, you're treated to a brief movie of a pin jumping onto a living room table and hiding under a lampshade while the ball roots fruitlessly around on the carpet. you can almost imagine the ball saying, in a voice very much like mungo's from the heathcliff cartoon, "heeeeeere, pinpinpinpinpin..." at their core, such embellishments are a lot like ms. pac-man intermission screens, though 1) of much better quality, and 2) not as satisfying. when you cleared the strawberry round in ms. pac-man, you did it with a trembling hand, because you were so damn amped to see ms. pac-man and pac-man get married, and it was just so right. love like that you only see in greeting cards and jenna jameson movies.
now, of the four of us that went, none of us are what you might think of as "natural" bowlers. we're all fairly competent people as far as day-to-day living goes, but there are qualities that inhibit 200+ bowling. steve is generally averse to moving quickly, fiona is often possessed by fits of giggling that leave her unfit to hold a 14-pound ball, pj is just sort of an enormous hyperkinetic flesh dervish, and my pants tend to fall down. ragtag, you might say. yeah, well, ragtag deez; depite my pants, i managed to walk away with the high score of the evening. granted, it was a 57, but still. okay, it wasn't a 57. it was a 139. i've spent all day fantasizing about my newfound and ever-growing tenpin prowess, and am currently plotting to crush you all. oh, yes.
bowl-mor is, according to sparky, a festival of human wankiness. that's a quote.
however, we've been given a title for our upcoming buddy-cop show. my girl lori suggested "oy fey!," which is basically hot to def. we're currently casting the show, and we're in need of a) some perps for sparky to, you know, "interrogate," b) a tough-as-nails captain who begrudgingly respects our unorthodox crimefighting methods, c) some jokester partners, including one hardass whose homophobic ways cause me to hand out a beatdown on sparky's behalf, d) various nubiles willing to participate in steamy carnal montages with my dark brooding loner character, and e) a sassy stationhouse receptionist. sparky wants to cast mary chen in this last part, which is fine by me. this mary chen character is bangin'. plus she picks her nose and eats it. that is wicked awesome. wait. no it's not. that's pretty gross. when i was in kindergarten and karen may used to pick her nose and eat it, we shuddered and prayed that we would have the self-control to wait until we got home to feast upon our nasal bounty. then we went outside and played on the see-saw. damn, i want a see-saw.
to recap: not-so-well-known metaphors of triumph and despair. enormous hyperkinetic flesh dervish. thank you.
p.
and yo. my full-on venture kneejerk.net is up and running, though not nearly full. go and getcha read on. for me.
props to darkcounter.com
and sitemeter