strike three

In our computer age avalanche of good things driven asunder by craven trends, there goes the bowling alley, one anyway. The closing of Orlando's Brunswick Lanes – a cool, dark, happy cave where body English and body language are the only signs of anguish; where anybody regardless of size or ability can drop a bowl onto the lane and watch it roll, 'cause it's all downhill; where the cannonballs have finger holes and the only hunt is hunting up a beer or a ball with holes to fit your hand; where the only relevant sounds are laughter and the crashing of colored balls against terrified white pins. Where the best sight is those pins suddenly disappearing in a clamor only to rise again. It's Easter all day every day. Was. For sure “was” will beat what will be. And that is the acid test for progress.