I went bowling.
It’s not all pins flying and spheres spinning and frames filling, as you might assume. Lots of it, on the level I bowl, is sitting in a fiberglass chair, looking around at what the rest of the bowlers are doing, and thinking about whatever. And beer. That’s it, really. Observing and thinking and beering … and a tiny bit of actual bowling. Sounds like a volatile mixture doesn’t it?
Yes, of course I agree with you, too. You’re brilliant.
Believe it or not, I knew you were going to read this caption. Matt Miller gets down in San Francisco. Photo: Mike Blabac
Bowling, due to the above-average concentration it demands from average individuals, produces a lot of wastewater and aggression, which can eventually manifest itself in parking lot fights and/or heavy petting. What I’m saying is that most people, including me, are not really bowling to up their averages, and with this point of view, you can see why I don’t say—out loud—most of the stuff I’m thinking at the bowling alley, what with all the hootin’, hollerin’, and ball handlin’ that’s going down in clear view of everyone and their cousins.
I’ll share this one with you, though, since we’re such good friends.
An average man in the lane next to mine, with his shirt tucked in, with his cuffs rolled, with his cell phone on his hip, was preparing to knock the shit out of the pins. It was his turn and the world stood still.
That’s when I snuck a silent little thought in there.
“When he makes his second or third step,” I considered, “and swings that ball back, it’s going to slip out of his hand and come flying backward.”
And just like that, he took two steps, swung back, and his fourteen-pound turquoise orb came flying in my direction.
Steve Nesser always knew he was destined for this waterpark back Smith. Photo: Sam McGuire
It hit the floor with an amazing thud and then spun painfully into the fragile ankles of everyone he was bowling with, who of course weren’t paying attention and didn’t see it coming at all. They were busy doing … other stuff.
“I knew that was going to happen,” I leaned over and whispered to my friend.
Of course I was lying. I only guessed it was going to happen and, coincidentally, it did. Lying’s another thing that happens a lot at bowling alleys. Sorry. Forgot to mention that one.
We lie, therefore we bowl.
And that reminds me of what I meant to tell you a few paragraphs back. One of the scariest things in the world is hearing a guy lying—speaking with complete certainty and confidence—and saying that he knows exactly what’s going to happen before it actually happens. I mean you have to ask, how does he know? Does he have a time machine? A crystal ball? An acquaintance in the future who’s feeding him the answers?
But that guy and all the lying isn’t the scariest part, so don’t get scared yet, okay? The scariest part is what we do when we hear lies that we know are lies.
We see them coming from a mile away and still we agree with them, we embrace them, we love them.
All the world’s a stage and we are merely liar lovers.
Brian Anderson no-comply tailslides like he knows his foot’s going back on. Photo: Ben Colen
Thing is, life is more gray and impulsive than it is black and white and singular. You can’t make stuff happen just by saying what you know, regardless of truth. Stuff happens by thinking and stepping out your door and reacting to what other people are thinking as they step out their doors, and reacting to stuff like chance and coincidence and uncertainty. And even if that were one hundred percent true—which it can’t really be—everything’s bound to change. No one really knows anything for sure. If they say they do, they’re lying.
Take your noseslide, for example. Every time you roll up to one, even though you know what one is, even though you’ve done them before, and even though you really want to roll away from that noseslide, it doesn’t mean it’s going to happen.
Thank you for nosesliding. Jeff King sends his “you’re welcome” from the ’93. Photo: Grant Brittain.
It can’t hurt to sneak silent little thoughts in there, though. That’s not lying. Rather, the innocent power of sneaky thoughts might make things seem to happen—the far fetched, the impossible, the truth. And when your feet are over the bolts and you’re not struggling and you’re thinking, “I knew that was going to happen,” it’s a cool feeling to laugh at yourself and understand that you don’t know shit, and that not caring isn’t just apathy, it’s fun.
None of this can, however, make a lie into something honest, or make liars into something like truth sayers.
Don’t believe in them.
Instead, try believing in accidents, or in breathing, or in the smell of plywood, or in knowing that you might run into a friend at the bowling alley who also saw the guy throw his ball backward at some people. Try believing, also, in the nosegrind that, strictly of its own accord, turns into a crooked grind and takes you off the end of the ledge like it knew what was going to happen.
Watch those ankles, though. They’re fragile little buggers.