A bitter review of Lucky Strike Lanes D.C.

Lucky Strike Lanes has managed to reached the zenith of identity confusion, allowing to coalesce an impotent attempt at classiness — replete with concomitant excessive drink (and bowling!) prices –, the garishness of a sports bar, obtrusive — and wholly inescapable — screens displaying above the bowling lanes what today passes, most regrettably, for art, and a menu, though not at all without its high points, lacking any sort of readily perceived internal coherence.

Additional to all of this, of course, is a very mediocre staff, the fabulousness of waitress Nina more than offset by the disinterest of the bowling counter clerk, who had no qualm with deserting me, shoeless, mid-transaction, and the mannerisms of the imperious blow-hard of a security official.

Moreover, an anticipated two-and-a-half-to-three-hour-long wait for a bowling lane, even at such a trendy spot in the city on Friday night, nigh leaves one in a stupor. When those three hours extend into almost four, the stupor evolves into irateness.

I recommend Lucky Strike Lanes with as much enthusiasm as I advocate shooting puppies with buckshot for the sake of amusement.

I should have known that Lucky Strike were to disappoint me: I loathe Gallery Place, site of the lanes, because it is a painfully sterile artifice, as so many new developments (e.g., downtown Silver Spring) tend to be. Planners — and many others — often are wont to toss about the word “authentic” with such frequency that it has lost much of its value; nevertheless, I confess, it is the lack of just this in these trendy new commercial/social areas that further blemish a field so often prone to destroying the urban fabric.

A sign of end times?

As he often does, my roommate Dustin, home for lunch, tuned the big-screen to Maury. A most remarkable scenario, one almost disappointing to the sick type of person who enjoys such programming, arose.

Dawan is the father of a year-old son born to his ex-girlfriend. A young black man, certainly no more than twenty-years old, living with his parents still, Dawan is a exemplary father, quite the anomaly in a nation in which so many black children grow up without a father present. Though he and the child’s mother are no longer romantically involved, they remain good friends, and Dawan does all that he can to support the child whom he dearly loves.

The mother of the child brought Dawan on to national television to reveal a dark secret, one that has torn at her heart for some time, to him: Whilst they dated, she cheated on him, and her one-time partner may have, in fact, rather than Dawan, impregnated her. Though quite hurt, Dawan asserted that, biological father or not, he will continue to love and to support his child. He is, in fact, the father.

Most of the guests on the show were involved in “I know that tramp’s baby ain’t mine, he don’t look nothin’ like me; his feet are too small” cases. The mothers had brought the men on so that, despite these would-be fathers’ claims and wishes, DNA testing could prove the men wrong. This is much more typical daytime talk fare. But here we have Dawan, brought on because he might not be the child’s father, and he not only hopes that he is, but insists that the test’s results will change nothing.

Remarkable. Poor formula for successful trash television, but an amazing exception to a sad, sad rule.

I am loath to agree with Chavez on anything

but he’s spot-on about John McCain.

“Got stabbed”

Speaking of the stabbing of Wire actor Christopher J Clanton, local DC Fox 5 anchor Brian Bolter, on the ten o’clock newscast, used that abhorrent language! “Got stabbed”?! Where did he get this stabbed material? How much did it cost him to get this stabbed? Surely, the newsman could have used the less insufferable “was stabbed”, or, rejecting the intolerable passive voice, said, say, “Christopher J Clanton suffered minor injuries when someone stabbed him during a brawl . . . .”

Perhaps I ask too much.

He is risen!

Christ the Lord is risen today, Alleluia!
All on earth with angels say, Alleluia!
Raise your joys and triumphs high, Alleluia!
Sing, O heav’ns, and earth reply, Alleluia!

Wishes for a happy and blessed Easter, joy in the Resurrection, to all!

Today is Good Friday.

And bowing His head, He handed over the spirit.

He does not speak for me.

He calls himself, it seems, “The Voice of Gen Y”.

“I’ve been professionally speaking to youth and companies since 2000 and know the mindset of Generation Y. Your company can benefit from my knowledge and recruit, reward, and retain your younger employees better. Bring in a speaker that is from their generation and get the customized training you deserve.”

I secede!