or, mid-afternoon bowling break.
Just the queers and the retirees swizzling free rotgut coffee and ginger-ale.
The film 'A League of Ordinary Gentleman" documented, well, the downfall of bowling-as-national-spectacle, as well as the death knell of 'civic engagement,' localized dialogue, etc., sounded by the demise of the local bowling club -- but here, in Binghamton, where we tend to be about two decades behind all those 'deaths' prompted by the transnational cannibalism, the bowling league is still alive and well. Gentleman bowling in the lane next to us (team tag: "may guys" -- labor nod? perhaps...), one fully decked in faux-leather replete with a full-color Elvis head on the back, between the shoulderblades, officially owned, having honed their scores since Carter. Myself -- didn't do so hot. The third graders, firm ensconced to our left, managed higher scores than myself ("but they had bumpers" my bowling partner says. As if bumpers have anything to do with the deadly aim of an eight year old on a gym class fieldtrip).
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