There was a rather long story in today’s Detroit Free Press about the slow demise of bowling in this country. This makes me said for a few reasons. For one, where else can you rent an item of clothing that tells the whole world what big feet you have. Nothing like taunting Big Joey who stuffed his oversized dogs into a pair of size 13’s straining the laces to the point of stripping the aglets from the ends. We all knew he wore size 13’s because it said so on the back of his shoes.

The first place I ever bowled was a place on Long Island called New Hyde Park Lanes. It’s where my father played in a league and it was pretty hot stuff that he had his own ball and didn’t have to slum it by using one of those hundreds of anonymous scratched, black balls on the racks. New Hyde Park Lanes never bothered to modernize. The ball return was a track along the surface between lanes, not the standard underground return. Until we were big enough to handle a regular bowling ball we were banished to the arcade version in the corner near the bar that used smaller duckpin type balls that had no finger holes. It was a big day where dad declared us ready to throw gutter balls using a real bowling balls where you stuck in your fingers after glopping sticky stuff on your thumb so it didn’t slip out. I actually still have an old jar of that stuff. See photo.It’s long been petrified.

In our neighborhood of eastern Queens near the NYC/Nassau County line, the biggest bowling even was the opening of Sterling Bowl. It was completely underground–56 lanes and thorougly modern. The only thing above ground was a small entry building. To get down to the lanes was a cascading open staircase or an elevator. This place had it all. About a billion balls to choose from, shiny, laquered lanes and an awesome bar and bartender named Jimmy.  As we got older Jimmy and his bar became a more important aspect of our Sterling Bowl visits than the actual bowling alleys. Jimmy liked us and bought us free drinks for every two we paid for and he provided a constant supply of salami and crackers.  When I’d tell my mother the gang and I were going to Sterling she’d say, “Bowl well!” Except we never set foot on an alley or threw a frame. We did score with Jimmy, enjoying the free drinks and snacks we earned by tipping him well.

Here’ in Michigan, my son and I enjoy bowling a few times a  year at a fine establishment in Commerce Township called Wonderland Lanes. My son has autism and the owners of Wonderland are huge supporters of autism awareness and hold fundraisers there a few times a year. One time the late owner took such a liking to my son he let us bowl for free. This is the part of bowling I hate to lose.  Bowling centers, or alleys or lanes, or whatever you want to call them aren’t just places to participate in bowling, they’re community gathering spots, safe places to meet friends, make new ones, grab a beer and relax. No pressure. It’s nice to see some perceptive business owners incorporate bowling alleys into their restaurants and movie theaters, but the traditional neighborhood bowling barns are headed for their final frames, according to that story in the Free Press. Let’s hope not.

I still use the bowling ball and bag my late father bought from a store in Manhattan forced to close when they grabbed the land to build the World Trade Center. It has his initials embossed in the ball. I may not ever bowl 300, but every time I use it I love knowing my fingers were where his were.

But that’s bowling. A heavy ball you stick your fingers in, rolling down the alley, aimed at knocking down those 10 pins., getting high fives and maybe a kiss from your girl if you succeed.  A simple game that only required a ball, some friends, a beer close by and shoes that gave away your size…and a bartender in the lounge who may buy you back a few drinks and set up some free salami. We can’t lose that.

Of all the news stories that took me slightly aback in the last few days, it was the news that the Jerry Lewis Muscular Dystrophy Telethon was ending. Oh, it hadn’t really been a true telethon in years, with Lewis suddenly being banished in 2010 and the once 21-hour marathon broadcast eventually snipped down to a scant two hours. I honestly hadn’t watched in a very long time but still, the end of the line for the program that started when I was four years old triggers a fond memory of my personal involvement with the show, sort of.

During the telethon’s heyday in the 60’s Jerry Lewis asked kids to help his “kids,” those suffering from Muscular Dystrophy, by holding fundraising carnivals. My friends and I jumped right in and organized what we thought was a can’t miss selection of carnival games that we’d set up in the big grassy area of our immense apartment complex in Queens–Glen Oaks Village. Glen Oaks, which still exists, is so big it has its own zip code. Well, wouldn’t you know it, but some other kids from across the street got wind of our plan and decided to hold a competing carnival. The bastards! They were better funded than my group had a ringer who was a whiz at arts and crafts and they came up with fancy tickets and more elaborate games. To rub it in, they decided to hold their carnival on the same day, less than 100 yards, from ours! We were devastated. Our version of skeeball looked like pauper’s playthings compared to theirs. We made due with wiffle balls wrapped in duct tape while the fancy lads from across the street managed to wrangle actual skeeballs from a neighborhood arcade. It only got worse. Neighborhood kids lined up to play their games while we sat dejectedly at our booths lonely and defeated.

At the end of the day the bad guys raked in about 50 bucks and all we managed was a paltry 50 cents. My father felt sorry for us and chipped in a buck. We were ashamed to send in a check for $1.50 to Jerry Lewis but we had to do something with the money. So, in exchange for assorted pocket change and my father’s buck, my mother wrote out the $1.50 check and we sent it in and licked our wounds.

About a week later the mailman shoved an envelope through our mail slot with the return address: Jerry Lewis Telethon. It was a large envelope. Inside was a beautiful certificate with Jerry Lewis’s signature on it congratulating us on contributing to the fight against Muscular Dystrophy. Along with it was a short letter signed by Jerry thanking us for our efforts and making it clear every contribution made a difference. I know I have the certificate somewhere..I think.

The experience always stayed with me all these years and probably is the reason why I’ve continued to believe that if the cause is right, the effort is sincere and you tried your best, the size of one’s contribution isn’t what matters but the fact that you cared enough to give it a shot is appreciated. Besides, as the old joke goes…it couldn’t hurt!

It was opening day of fishing season Sunday, which was something I didn’t know when we put our kayaks in the water. Every 7 feet was another group of fishermen all dressed in rubber and camo standing in the middle of the river with their heads down and eyes aimed at the water. As we floated by they would look up and ask us hopefully, “see any fish?” But alas the river was fishless. However, as we passed by perhaps our fourth group of luckless anglers I saw what looked like a trout about a foot long dart by my boat. “A fish!” I shout, thinking this is helpful to the guys we just passed. But instead of gratitude they gave me a look that said, “and what the hell do you suppose we should do, tackle it?”

So we continued our trip upriver where we encountered the largest group yet—a half dozen losers with their lures or bait or whatever you stick on the end of a hook in order to coax a fish into biting it. “See any fish!?” one called out. This time my answer was more optimistic. “Yes! A big one about a quarter-mile back!” “Great!” one called back. “Any closer?” At that point I’m thinking I caught more with my two eyes than those guys caught in two hours of standing with sticks and string with hooks n’ stuff on the end of them dipped in the fast moving current.

At that point we decided the river was too clogged with this crowd of rubber/cammo’d bipeds and turned back downriver. Very shortly we encountered a new group of fishermen. As we stopped to chat with them it became apparent we were not on the same page. I mentioned we had seen several other fishermen upriver. My partner didn’t quite hear me and added, “yeah, they had a bunch of them on a stringer!” Horrified and thinking we had described an outtake from the movie “Deliverance,” the fishermen abruptly and wordlessly returned their attention to their rods, and eyes to the river. Our little episode might not have measured up to one of Hemingway’s famous fishing tales such as “The Big Two-Hearted River,” but after encountering so many wet guys with empty buckets and bass-less stringers, we might have written “The Shallow Heartbreak River.” It was just one of those episodes you catch…and release.

Baaaaaaaaaaaaaaah! People can be such sheep. I realize I’m going to stir up some deep-seated beliefs here but I’m going to come right out and say it: I’ve done a comparison test of which the results may surprise some, be considered heretical to others, and to a very special few, admired as utterly heroic.

I’ll just come out and say it. I prefer Whataburger over In-N-Out. There. I said it and I won’t take it back. Ever. I came to know Whatatburger back in late 1970’s when I lived in Tucson, Arizona and became reacquainted with the chain after a couple of recent assignments in Texas. The most recent, this weekend’s trip to Dallas where I stuffed a delectable double bacon-cheeseburger through my pie hole.
For years I’d been listening to people have oral orgasms over In-N-Out and read stories that would award the chain the Congressional Medal of Cheap-o Comestibles. By the time I finally tried one of their vaunted Double-Doubles and a shake I fully expected to have to smoke cigarette  afterwards and call the store the next morning to thank it for a good time. But I didn’t. It was fine. It was fast food, the store was congested, not that clean, I waited forever for my food and smoking’s bad for you anyway.

My last two trips to Whataburger were completely different. I don’t smoke but in expectation of perfection imagined myself the Marlboro Man about to leave the joint with a satisfied swagger. I wasn’t disappointed. The food was delivered quickly by a very courteous server, the burgers cooked just right and about the thickness that said “chomp down boy, this is gonna put a shiteatin’ grin on your face.” It did. While many of you know I lead a condiment-free life, I couldn’t help but be impressed that, not once, but twice, a server came around with a tray bearing pods of every variety of ketchup and mustard worthy of sitting on a Whataburger, which my co-diners pounced upon anticipating a condiment high.

Oh..did I mention Whataburger’s onion rings? Now I did. Crispy and just the right ratio of grease and actual onion. Fries? Ha! I fie on your fries!

Now I realize you In-N-Out sheep who coo over their private stock of burger meat on the hoof and the imagined perfection of their discs of meat patties may unfriend me on Facebook or launch other such social sanctions, but will not retreat on iota. Oh In ‘n Out is fine ‘n dandy, but as the old commercial  by the late Mel Tillis once pronounced, “It’s more than a hamburger…it’s a HAM-burger!” Watch. 

Call me crazy but during my week off I planned to completely waste it with yard work, tidying up my garage and taking both vehicles in to have their tires rotated and wheels aligned. You can tell I’m a total “good time boy.” I even had designs on going all out by dropping some turf builder on the brown area behind my house some might call a lawn and then shooting for the moon by cleaning my gutters.
Oh you may think that’s a hell of a way to spend precious time away from the office that would be better spent with my family at say a water park or all-inclusive resort. To be completely succinct and transparent, I’d just as soon liquify my eyeballs with a propane torch than torture my loved ones and myself by exposing them to venues that include screaming, wet children being ignored by parents who are blasted on frozen margueritas while nurturing melanomas courtesy Old Sol.
That’s not to say I don’t like to get away during my time off. I just don’t like to get away to places where other people are going. A nice kayak paddle on a remote river or a bike ride through the woods or even lunch at a Burger King, where you will run into absolutely no one.
But alas my best laid plans were dashed by days spoiled by rain and fog precluding the yardwork and making the garage too damp to work in. I can still take the cars in for service but it’s near the end of the week and I don’t want to waste what vacation I have left in the waiting room that smells of fresh rubber and crappy coffee.
I’ve tried to forget about work but work keeps calling me and emailing me thinking my email out-of-office message is a lingering April Fool’s joke. I wish there was a way to program a follow up that says, “hey moron, can’t you read? You’re dead to me until next week.”
I hear the rain will pass and I may yet get to take care of those chores. I hope so. Because I can’t wait for someone to give me a pathetic look of sympathy when I reply to their insincere query as to what I dod on my vacation. I might wipe that assholierthanthou look on their face by shaking my head and remarking, “I hope you spend your next vacation at Splash City. Bring the Xanax.”

I didn’t grow up with Easter. It would be a funny thing for a Jewish family from Queens, or anywhere else, to be involved with. By the time Easter hit we were usually into our third or fourth day of Passover matzoh-induced digestive distress. We didn’t hunt for eggs. We hunted for exLax.

But Easter came into my life in 1973 when I married an Episcopalian girl from suburban Rochester, N.Y. Greece, to be specific.

We never really did much about Easter until the past five or six years when my sister and mother-in-law started inviting to Greece to join them for Easter dinner at a famous buffet and “party house” called Golden Ponds. The name seems to be derived from the fact it’s located on Long Pond Road and a tip of the chafing dish to the Henry, Jane Fonda/Katherine Hepburn film “On Golden Pond.” Cute.

It’s difficult to see the place from the road but it’s not hard to know when to turn in. Just follow the constant parade of minivans and long family sedans stuffed with famished Easter celebrants who can’t wait to jump out of still-moving vehicles in order to claim their seats at tables long-reserved for the big day.

Once inside and seated the battle for the best dishes ensues. The offerings are typical brunch fare—breakfast and lunch dishes and tall, refreshing mimosas.

There are, however, scenes of fierce conflict. Most notably, the tray of French toast could easily be confused with a gastronomic Gettysburg. As combatants line up on either side of the sought-after thick wedges of the egg-dipped delight the bravest thrust their arms forward in order to take possession of the all-powerful tongs. Without them, acquisition is impossible. There are only two sets, a woefully inadequate supply for the impatient line of diners desiring as many wedges as they can plop on their plates. Take took long, or too much, and a dowager from Irondequoit might bark, “hurry the hell up!” at you or a portly pansy ass from Penfield might simply attempt to wrench the appliance from your hands. It doesn’t take long before it’s all-out war and the momentary allotment of the breakfast food is depleted scattering the battalions at the buffet line over to their second choice, the bacon tray, while growling, “there’s no freakin’ French toast left!” I was lucky enough to score two wedges on my first trip, but left bereft of seconds on my subsequent sorties.

Personally, I was mature, and full, enough not to be bothered by this setback as I succeeded in filling several plates with pancakes, bacon, sausage, hash browns and a few desserts to which I refuse to admit.

Indeed, I emerged from Golden Ponds fuller, fatter and happier but I’m already plotting next year’s assault on the French toast tray. Hint. It involves the addition of sharp objects, a Taser and eating the last wedge in front of the Penfield pansy ass.