Today At The Bowling Alley ...

I was meeting two old friends ... one male and one female ... for some catch-up chatter and a beer of three when I was struck by a thunderbolt of an idea. I phoned "the girl" and told her my evil plan. She loved it and was sure our other friend, "the man," would be all in.

So instead of a pub or a restaurant, we all arrived in our separate vehicles to spend a beautiful spring Sunday afternoon in the bowling alley bar. And "all in" was what we became when beers turned into pitchers, and pitchers were joined by shots. And a game of darts brought on more shots. And then it was time to bowl!!

Bowling is such a great sport. Reportedly originating in Germany in 300 AD, bowling was officially sanctioned in America around 1895 where it became a popular pastime for the citizens of NYC. Health professionals describe bowling as an anerobic activity with similar exercise valaue as power walking with free weights. I don't know how health nuts bowl, but I describe it as a"sport" where drinking, swearing, horseplay, and the consumption of greasy foodstuffs like wings and chili fries are almost mandatory. And with electronic scoring, you get to give yourself crude names that other bowlers can see.

If you're a good bowler, your teammates and others around you cheer and congratulate your performance ... you feel like a star. And if you're a bad bowler, your teammates and everyone nearby LOVES YOU and you ARE a star!

Of all the sports out there, bowling is also one of the few I can actually stand to watch on television and enjoy. At first, I thought it was just me and my ADD coming to an understanding, but I think bowlers come across as real people ... not big name celebrities with their assorted scandals or mega-athletes that make more money than God. Bowlers are just regular "Joes" with a little extra talent ... who doesn't enjoy watching the Everyman succeed?

If you like simple things, there are still small-town alleys out there with basic set ups, old school snack shops and arcades for the kids, and plenty of league action to help you groom your game. And if it's highlife you're after, there are lanes that will boggle your mind ... like the lanes at The Orleans in Las Vegas with 70 lanes, 24-hour access, multiple bars for meeting people, and all the glitzy neon and club atmosphere you can handle.

So with a liver fighting for its life, I bowled a respectable 188 that Sunday afternoon with my two friends. And we celebrated one of America's underrated pleasures.

POINT OF RANT: Take the family bowling!

Today At My Old High School ...

My niece's car was being worked on ... something about the oilpan. She needed a ride home from a cheerleading clinic, so here I was sitting in front of my hometown alma mater feeling very old.

My niece has been a varsity cheerleader for three years. She enjoys it, even though most of the family teases her relentlessly about the ditsy, shallow, and vapid cheerleader stereotype. I have never met any of her "co-spiriters," so imagine my shock when she exited the school with four other girls who looked about 26 and were clearly on their way to work the stripper poles. And not at the good clubs, but the ones near the airport. Any airport. Every airport.

After she was inside the car and belted in, I asked my niece about the "advisors" she was talking to at the school's door, or the older sisters who walked out of the building in her company. Or were they young mothers that just looked really good for their age? "No, those girls are sophomores," she replied, "... and the one on the left is a freshman." The one on the left had the breasts of a well-developed college senior. What kind of growth hormones is the USDA of FDA or whatever agency letting slip into our food supply? These were not the girls of my high school years. And what the hell was the deal with the tans??!!!

We sat there with the car idling for a few more moments and maybe 15 more girls exited the school by themselves or in small groups. And each young lady was a proposterous shade of brown. Now, not everything has changed in my high school. I know from observation that the student body of the entire school system is extremely Caucasian. There are exactly three black students and a handful of individuals of mixed race. But the girls I was ogling in a completely scientific manner looked to be Black, Native American, and whatever races produce a dark skin coloration that appears dirty, unhealthy, and slightly orange at the same time.

"Tryouts are in three weeks, and prom is a week later," my niece, whose own legs were about three shades darker than her arms, continued to explain. "The race is on!!"

Unlike my high school years where extra money was funneled into gas and beer, my niece and her cohorts use their handed-over-from-parents cash for more important necessities ... tanning.

Believe it or not, ancient civilizations used to worship the idea of being pale. Pale pallors meant that you weren't toiling in the fields with the masses. Light complexions were a sign of high status, and both men and women often applied cosmetic concoctions to lighten their look.

But in America, it was the decade of the '40s that had popular magazines touting the benefits of sunbathing. Movies and media of the '50s and '60s strengthened the linkage between being tan and living healthy, fun-filled lifestyles. In 1978, the first tanning beds hit America by storm, offering the tan look without the need for time and real sun. And over the last decade, self-tanning lotions and spray-on tan application systems have gained in popularity.

However, the "look" of a healthy tan doesn't necessarily match up with the facts about tanning. Like our sun, tanning beds emit ultraviolet radiation that causes a substance in the skin called melanin to darken, producing a wide range of tan skin tones. Most tanning beds produce a mixture of UVA and UVB rays, causing both primary (and quick) skin darkening and delayed tanning. Suggested lotions and limited exposures are designed to prevent the natural damaging effects of UV radiation.

But all is not perfect with tanning and tanning beds. The darkening of melanin, by definition, is the body's defense mechanism to damage. Exposure to UV radiation has been directly linked to the development of skin cancer, cataracts, compromised immune systems, and the premature aging and wrinkling of skin. In fact, according to Internet sources, the U.S. Public Health Service classifies ultraviolet radiation, like that produced by sun lamps and tanning beds, as a human carcinogen. And the World Health Organization strongly objects to the use of tanning beds for cosmetic reasons, especially in young people.

I think pure science isn't the end-all to this issue, either. Factors like genetic predisposition, quality of tanning equipment, and common sense thinking have to come into play.

And then there's human nature ... that great desire to cheat any given system ... that has to put in its two cents. According to my niece, several of her friends tan at two different "salons" in a given day ... that's a no-no. Others sweet-talk the attendants into letting them go longer in the beds than suggested. And my niece has three immediate relatives who have battled cancer, so I'd like to shake her 'til she sees stars ... and the light ... about risking her health for temporarily darker skin.

So as I drive away from my old high school, I look in my rearview mirror and see young modern women wearing shades of skin that nature DID NOT provide. And I imagine them in another 10 years with dermis like shoe leather. Not a pretty picture!

POINT OF RANT: There is no definite answer to this one ... your transitory appearance vs. your health ... you decide.

Today At The Dog Park ...

I have this friend named Trevor. Trevor, to start, was a friend of a friend's roommate. Likeable on first glance, Trevor proved to be a constant source of amusement and adventure, and became a first-level friend. Trevor taught me how to sled on cafeteria trays. Trevor helped me cram for art history finals. Trevor helped my back to campus after consuming 29 gin and tonics at "10 Cent Well Drinks Night." And it was Trevor who talked me out of making a serious commitment to a girl who I thought was extremely proper - I later found out her nickname was "Rugburn."

Trevor was also the definition of "open." At keggers, it was a 50/50 proposition if he would be leaving with an inebriated sorority girl or drunk-on-his-ass frat dude. Trevor was heteroflexible and we never really discussed the issue, he was just being Trevor. But when Trevor recently breezed through the area on a business trip and asked if I wanted to see a place where "the sex and cruising was wild," I hesitated, weighing his crazy past with the excitement of reconnecting for a few hours. I agreed to be ready in an hour.

The Ohio springtime weather was bewitching as I waited outside. I was dressed casually but smart, nice chinos and a newish dress shirt. I wanted to look like an adult, but not too old. Surprisingly on time, Trevor pulled up with Sheba, his terrier/doberman/spawn of Satan mix. It seems we were going to the dog park to watch Sheba frolick with complete canine strangers.

I, of course, was overdressed for the outing, but Trevor just thought the whole thing was funny. So did Sheba, who in her excitement whizzed a strip down my left pant leg as she shared steering duties with Trevor.

After a 20 minute ride, we arrived at the park. About an eighth-of-a-mile square, the park was busy with two- and four-legged patrons. There were maybe seven other cars in the small parking lot. A variety of humans and dogs milled about, with the animals inside a fence with two volunteer "monitors" that worked each afternoon. I counted about 12 dogs so some people brought more than one beast to play.

The park itself was a mix of flat and wooded areas, littered with every type of ball and chew toy imaginable. Comfortable-looking benches sat close to the running area so that people could relax but staty close to their pets (most people stayed inside the fence with their animals). Everything seemed very well maintained.

Trevor quickly put Sheba on her retractable leash and went over to a bin that housed spare dog bowls and borrowed one. He filled it with water from a nearby spigot and motioned me over to a bench. "Watch this while I get her started," he instructed me and then towed Sheba (she fought the leash the whole way) over to the entrance gate.

As I sat, I glanced over a clearly painted set of rules for using the dog park. Most of it was common sense, but I also thought it was a very responsible move. No roughhousing, no leaving your dog unattended, no food inside the fence, a suggestion to use tha holding area just inside the gate to see how your animal was reacting to being so close to others, and, most importantly, immediate leashing and removal of your dog from the premises if he or she acted up. There was also a standard disclaimor about the city/county/parks department having no responsibility for your do or dog's actions ... legalspeak for you can't sue us if something happens.

Manners ... expectations ... nice looking facility ... what could go wrong? I'm sure the organizers of the Super Bowl, Carnivale, Mardi Gras, Gay Pride, and New Year's Eve in Times Square have the same delusions. It seemed like all I did was blink and the scene went from quaint and serene to lude and lawless. The two "volunteers," obviously individuals who liked dogs but didn't get to spend a lot of time with people, focused on talking up all the owners and didn't once glance at the dogs. The people on the benches who weren't deep in conversation with the helpers (Trevor was telling them both one story or another) had their noses in books or seemed to be deciding the fate of the world via cellphones. And the dogs, oh the dogs ... the growling and the chasing and the yapping and the teasing and the nipping and the chasing and the butt-sniffing and the attempted mounting ... it was out of control. I looked for cameras, first to corroborate what I was witnessing and then to record it for the reality series that was obviously taking place. Seriously, I looked for a studio audience and all the "grips" and "gaffers" and "best boys" because this couldn't be happening for real. And if it was a tv show or movie, then Sheba was a lead actor. She had latched on to a female beagle about her size and was hurriedly humping hindquarters to beat the band.

It was like seeing a car accident ... wanting to look away but unable to look away ... for several minutes before Trevor plopped down beside me, nudged me in the ribs playfully, and snickered, "Did I tell ya? Did I tell ya?"

He had told me. And Trevor, after all, is a man of his word.

POINT OF RANT: Think carefully before going places with Trevor.

Today In My Recliner ...

Although I think humor binds us altogether, I want to digress to a story that's all about heart.

Last evening ... Easter 2010, my family was sharing a simple evening meal to accommodate the most members' schedules. Somehow the topic of age came up. My nephew ... a medical lab technician at a rural hospital ... whistled to get everone's attention. He had a story.

It seems that day, at 5:30 a.m., he had been sent to draw blood on a 92-year-old lady whom he had chatted with briefly on previous visits. He had to rouse her from sleep and, without her hearing aid, he had to speak loudly and tell her his intentions. He worked his "magic" with little pain and started to leave. Since the patient seemed alert, my nephew asked her how she felt and if she was looking forward to spring. She commented positively and began to get comfortable, a plan for returning to sleep apparently in the works.

Collecting his specimen, he said, "before I forget, I want to wish you a very Happy Easter! ... today's Easter." To which she replied, "thank you, sweetie ... and you do the same."

About an hour later, after returning to the lab and busying himself with upcoming shift-change routine, the patient's test results finished and one of her "levels" was high. My nephew called up to the floor and told a nurse the results. "Well thanks for the heads up," she stated, "but I'm afraid that patient passed away a few minutes ago. You were probably the last person to see her."

As we sat quietly amidst honey mustard chicken and mashed potatoes, everyone of my family members was quiet. I was tearing up, as I am as I write this entry. My nephew had taken less than a moment out of his young life to speak to someone in a less-than-positive position. He took the time to simply ask someone how they were doing. It's so easy to forget the small acts of kindness we see in our chaotic lives, or the impact we can have on others by just being decent people.

POINT OF RANT: Take the time whenever you can to celebrate the good people in your life and let those important around you know what they mean to you. And nephew, I couldn't be more proud.

Today In My Easter Basket ...

Easter ... a Christian mainstay event ... a day when Christ arose from the tomb and a day when many of us make our one of two appearances at church each year. Easter has Pagan origins as a festival or fertility and renewal. Easter, like every holiday, means different things to different people. But in middle America, the celebration of the Easter season couldn't happen without the helping sugary hand of candy.

Unlike Halloween where we have to wear idiotic costumes and beg for treats, Easter is just a bonanza of sweets displayed in a variety of baskets, pails, bins, and other containers ... even Tupperware.

This season I made a concerted effort to assemble affordable but fun Easter "loot" for members of my immediate family. Kit Kats for nephew ... check. Candy necklaces for neighbor girls ... check. Big League Chew gum for my uncle ... check. Solid chocolate bunnies for several people ... nowhere to be bloody found!!

Oh, sturdy and solid chocolate hoppity-hops are out there ... if you mean 5 lb. hares of heinous proportions, or big-name candy shop cottontails that require a second mortgage (okay, let's be real, third). I found three-foot tall hollow "goliath" bunnies dressed in their holiday finery, peanut butter bunnies with their sickly orange "spray-on tan," dark chocolate rabbits so riddled with cocoa they make my cheeks hurt, "crispy" creatures with ricy skin conditions, and white rabbits looking embarrassed that the word "chocolate" was even associated with them. I even found these mutant vegetables-with-faces made out of chocolate ... they watched me as I passed them in the aisle, assessing my ability to stop them if they tried anything with me or the other shoppers.

I wasn't looking for more choices than my freshman year college course catalog. I wanted tradition. I wanted that teasing peek-a-boo box that lets you see a bit of naked chocolate rabbit flesh. I wanted that sexy brown color and not-too-sweet chocolate aroma. I wanted that strange chemical formula/periodic chart composition that creates a confection that, if the rabbit had a wick in its head, could pass for a chocolate candle. I wanted to see the word SOLID proudly displayed on the package, giving me instant Easter confidence that all was well and the economy would bounce back and my cat would be more careful in and around the litterbox, saving me valuable clean-up time.

Now, in my neck of the woods, we have superstores we'll call W, K, and T. I bet you have them too ... they're literally around every corner. And grocery store chains - places like Different-K, M, or your area's version - also stock a boat-load of confections from which to choose. With such a selection, why did everything seem so figuratively and literally hollow?

Feeling somewhat defeated, I was making a few last-minute "basket" selections - Post-Its, playing cards, super-bounce balls, and corn cob skewers - when there, on an endcap with baby wipes, I found Nirvana and it's name was Russell Stover.

Thank you, Russell Stover. Bless you and yours, Russell Stover. Are you a real person, Russell Stover? If I had a kid and named him Russell Stover, would he hate me for it?

POINT OF RANT: Never give up ... stick to your guns ... anything worth having takes work. But, more importantly, this cautionary tale of my hunt for Leporidea Cocoa is a warning of to all Americans of impending doom. Why the hell are Skittles and SweetTarts even kept near the chocolate during prime pre-Easter shopping? I believe that forced breeding programs and government gene splicing experiments involving these tangy targets and my beloved solid chocolate bunnies have created the ultimate soldier ... the chocolate vegetables-with-faces I mentioned earlier. They appear innocent, all smiles and fetching colors. But they have been built for guile, trained for espionage, and taught the 653 ways to kill. And with the genetic make-up of rabbits, they will breed fast (like rabbits) and they will breed often (a litter as big as 13 every 32 days). Stay watchful!

Today At A Softball Game ...

Today I attended a girls' softball doubleheader to support the child of some good friends. A few minutes before the first pitch, many of the assembled parents and grandparents were buzzing about the coach and a "radical" decision he had made earlier in the week while preparing for an away game. It seems this crazy-man produced a small lockbox and instructed all his players to place their cell phones inside with a promise to return them when the bus was on its way home later in the evening.

It seems the coach, like me, sees cell phones as a possible distraction in life, not just the God-sent gift society thinks they are. I had the opportunity to speak with the coach and ask him a few dangerous questions.

Why'd you do it? "Last year, I had a player taking photos and texting with a friend in the stands. Not only is it disrespectful to other players, but it's a dangerous distraction with the alert noises and ringtones."

Why not just a ban during actual playing time? "I want my players preparing for the game, getting focused ... not flirting with boys online or texting another player three seats away on the bus. Getting your head in the game should be a focus, not planning your social calendar."

What have parents said? "A few have been very supportive, but some see it as a personal punishment for their child. I'm surprised that they get more riled up about cell phones than how their child is performing on the field."

What about a double standard - do you have a cell phone "on you" during games? "There are different rules for coach and players, I'll admit. I'm the adult with responsibility for these young adults. I need to be reachable to parents not attending games or to opposing coachs and officials that might need to notify me of a delay or change while in route to a game. My phone is on 'vibrate' durings bus rides and games, and in fact I usually give it to my statistician for monitoring so I don't even have to worry about it."

I SOOOOOOO support this guy. Let's face it ... we need our cell phones for communication and emergency situations. And I guess we have to support our human habits to gossip, record nearby happenings like FOXNews, and support YouTude with more Star Wars hamsters, laughing babies, and surprised kitties. But we need limits, especially teenagers.

I've done some research and it's alarming the number of legal bans, high school handbook entries, and pending cyberbullying legislation aimed at distancing students and their "cell appendages" on school property and during school-related activities. And why are such extreme measures needed, you might wonder. In Wisconsin, a female high school student had to be officially arrested and fined for refusing to stop disrupting a class by texting. In Connecticut, high school students used cell phones to start and escalate a student brawl by inviting more participants and enflaming the situation with texts and phone video footage. And excuse me for sounding like Ms. Manners, but in an Oregon high school a cell phone ban was finally instituted when students disrupted an assembly presented by a holocaust survivor with their ongoing texting and cell phone use.

Personally, I use my phone sparingly. It's a phone. I don't use it to write. I don't use it to take vacation photos. I don't use it to run a business. And I respect the rights of those who do use cell phone applications to manage their lives. But rude is rude. I don't usually answer my phone when I'm having a face-to-face conversation with someone. I don't put others at risk by talking or texting from my phone when I'm driving. And I have pleaded with my niece and nephew to not stick their faces in their phones at family and social events.

POINT OF RANT: Cell phones can make life more manageable and interesting, but they shouldn't become the focus of our lives.

Today In A Storage Tote ...

I was looking for some old magazines I had saved for reference articles when I found a small storage tote of old comic books. April isn't just the scary tax month ... it's a celebration of an American icon. SUPERMAN.

In April of 1938, National Allied Publications ... a predecessor of today's DC Comics ... launched Action Comics #1. The story was based on a character created by Jerry Siegel and refined with the help of artist Joe Shuster while the two men were working in Cleveland in 1933. The original character was actually a bald world conqueror with telepathic powers. The concept piqued the interest of many, but it was five years before their revised heroic creation ... modeled after swarthy American actor Douglas Fairbanks Sr. ... made its way into the hearts and minds of the American public.

Action Comics #1 introduced us to Kal-El, a man who was sent to Earth as an infant to escape the destruction of his homeworld, Krypton. He was found in a crashed rocket by Jonathan and Martha Kent and raised with solid values of family and community as their adopted son, Clark. At an early age, the Kents discovered that their son's alien origins included some unique gifts such as super strength, enhanced speed and reflexes, invulnerability to most weapons, heat and x-ray vision, and the ability to fly at incredible speeds.

Over the decades, the adventures of Clark Kent have entertained millions with incredible acts of heroism, dynamic battles with a vast array of villains, touching romantic entanglements, and an ongoing struggle to fit in with people who he has sworn to protect while never truly being one of them. There have been radio serials, newspaper cartoon strips, dozens of comic book titles, paperbacks and novels, feature films (not the best), animated cartoons, and three notable TV series ... the latest going into its 10th (and supposedly final) season this fall.

I have two favorites. In the comics, I think Superman is best in the Justice League of America series, an assemblage of some of the world's greatest heroes like Wonder Woman, Black Lightning, Zatanna, Green Lantern, Batman, Flash, Aquaman, Firestorm, and Doctor Light. As a member of the JLA, Superman can share the responsibilities of being a hero and gets the opportunity to let his guard down around other empowered individuals. There are even a few alien members, so they can lament about being "strangers in a strange land."

And on television, Smallville wins hands down. It's slick and dark and the characters are ruggedly handsome/incredibly sexy and extremely capable. And there's definitely an innocence to the show that isn't easy to find on today's channel guide.

So HAPPY 72nd ANNIVERSARY, SUPERMAN!! ... you don't look a day over 32.

POINT OF RANT: Did you know Siegel and Shuster sold their rights to the Superman character for about $130? There have been lawsuits and concessions made to the men and their families, but ... WOW ... that's definitely finding a Picasso at a yard sale!