Last week, this kid who's been hanging around the house asked me to take him to buy bowling shoes. Why would I do that? I guess I did it because he claims to be Chaco and he looks like Chaco, so I just went with it.
Oh sure, Chaco's been bowling before. We've gone bowling sporadically since he was strong enough to heft a real bowling ball. Personally, I rather suck at it, but find it oddly enjoyable. It's just something to do on a rainy / snowy / sweltering hot / otherwise boring day. So when he announced that he's joined the bowling intramural club or whatever it is at school, it wasn't entirely weird. And actually, I was glad that he's got another diversion aside from video games to fill his veering-towards-one-dimensional recreative time.
So we went out and got the shoes, the ball, the bag for shoes and ball. And he's bowling. To be honest, I think part of this is about driving. He has a license. He wants to drive. He has no car. He gets to drive when he's running an errand for ME or Magnum, but that's about it other than obligatory school stuff. AHA! Remedy: Join a club that requires one to drive somewhere.
But, he is actually doing it, not just driving to it. Last Saturday, he and a friend went bowling. He stayed the night at friends house, came home Sunday afternoon and declared that we should go bowling. I was deeply engrossed in laundry duty at the time, and bowling sounded like a nice alternative, so we rallied other interested parties and the whole fam went bowling.
We bowled, I sucked as usual, it was fun.
Earlier this week, I caught him practicing his approach in the Man Cave. This was disconcerting because my Giga Desk is in the corner of the Man Cave. Just don't let go of that ball in the house, I says. Of course not, he says.
Bowling. I just keep being reminded of Fred Flintstone.