melrose place cancellation

I never bowled at Melrose Lanes. I suppose that makes me compliant in it's demise and gives me little justification to mourn, but I do love old bowling alleys.

Maybe I just loved the sign. I snapped this with my primitive digital camera while pacing around before a poorly attended gig at the nearby Sutler on a Wednesday night last fall.

Yes, I think it is the sign. Something trendy will no doubt assume this location and my opinion of it will be based on what happens to the sign. A pox on them if they dispose of it and the blessing of Rex L. Camino if they find a way to incorporate it into their endeavors. I fear I am drawn more to style than substance these days--a cheap and shallow hack of a man enticed by shiny objects and a good gimmick.

The bowling alley itself will reopen in another location, but I doubt that I will visit it there any more than I did on Franklin Road. Bowling was one of my favorite courses in college and I fear I have wasted that education. I should have been more dedicated to a sport that allows beer drinking and provides an indoor atmosphere welcoming of comb-overs.

It is not too late, I suppose, but the bowling alley here in Murfreesboro is the only place in town with nastier draft beer than The Boro. A man cannot hone his craft with such adversity. This is not some humorless Stallonian Hollywood fairy tale for the feeble-minded and easily swayed. I will not go from common truck driver and bad father to the man who arm wrestles "Bull" Hurley for that sport's recognized title and overcomes Robert Loggia's financial advantage to earn my son's love. Kenny Loggins will not croon a ballad while my credits role. This is real life, kittens and cats.

I will instead continue my regiment of bowling once a year, finding surprise at how well I scored for being out of practice, promising myself to put more time and effort into it, and then eventually forgetting the whole thing until next year.

That is what domestic beer does to a man.